Another Step Forward
by Just Dash
Summary: Picks up immediately after my story One Step Forward.  Neal, Peter and Elizabeth continue to work through the aftermath of Kate's death and Neal's return to work.  Please be aware that this story does contain non-sexual discipline spanking.
1. Chapter 1

**Another Step Forward – A White Collar FanFiction Story**

**By Dash**

**12/20/210**

**Notes and Dedication:**

This will really make MUCH more sense if you read story #1 in this series – One Step Forward. This part picks up within hours of that story ending.

**Another Step Forward:**

Glancing out of the bedroom window as he slipped a sweatshirt over his head, Peter smiled. It was Saturday, which meant two days off to relax around the house with Elizabeth, take care of the normal boring chores that piled up during the week and, hopefully, catch up on his sleep. He had no regrets about the nighttime schedule he was keeping, up easily three or four times during the week to keep Neal company, but it did take its toll and he was tired. It had been a very stressful month and he was hoping that the faint flicker at the end of the tunnel was actually light and not a speeding training barreling toward him. Pushing that thought out of his mind, he glanced through the open door of the guest room and saw that Neal was already up. The bed was neatly made and the only sign that someone had even been living in the room for the past two weeks was a book sitting on the nightstand. The thought that the younger man had made so little impact made him feel sad for some reason. He had seen Neal's studio apartment of course multiple times and while he was neat, he wasn't normally this neat. There was always a sketch pad sitting around, stray books, shoes toed into a corner, the normal signs off life. Trying not to read too much into the situation, he headed down the steps and was greeted with the smell of brewing coffee.

"Morning, honey," Elizabeth said, glancing through the open kitchen door at the sound of him walking through the dining room.

He leaned in and kissed her. "Morning. Smells great in here. What kind of coffee is that?"

She grinned and held up her mug for him to sip. "Something from Kenya that June had sent over yesterday." When he glanced at her, she added, with a small embarrassed smile, "I think it's a thank you for taking care of Neal. She had food sent over last week, too."

"She did? What?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Remember the basket of cookies and that coconut cake?"

"That was great cake, I thought it came from an event?"

She shook her head. "No, June, courtesy of 'The Greatest Cake.'" Then she shrugged. "I thought I mentioned it when I served it? I wasn't trying to keep it a secret." She glanced at him. "It's not a problem, is it?"

Peter shook his head. "It's fine – I just didn't realize or didn't remember." His smile slowly widened and he shook his head at the memory of the younger man's heart-stopping leap onto the awning. "The Greatest Cake …"

Laughing, knowing what he was thinking of, she kissed him again as she pulled her mug back. "I'm sure I told you, you were too distracted inhaling cake and then the cookies the next day."

He grinned. "Those were good cookies, too." Reaching for her cup, he added, "And even better coffee."

"Get your own," she said, twisting away. "There's plenty and several types."

"Where is Neal at anyway?" he asked, pulling down his own mug.

She gave him a small smile. "He was restless and wanted to go out, so I sent him out to get pastries for breakfast."

Peter groaned. "Honestly, El? I thought we wanted less roaming, not more."

Leveling her gaze at him, she eyed him for a minute. "What did you want me to do, Peter? Tell him no? You told me that you'd be the bad cop; I was to be supportive. Plus you just said nothing at night, it's 8 am, broad daylight." Seeing his reluctant nod, she smiled. "And I made him take Satch and told him that it was too cold for the dog to be out too long, so twenty minutes max." She glanced at the clock. "Which is up in about three minutes."

He glanced at the clock as well and knew that, once again, his wife was right. He knew Neal and knew that the younger man would never dream of being late with Elizabeth's instructions ringing in his ears. He might push against Peter's boundaries, but his respect for Elizabeth wouldn't allow him to do that with her. Leaning over, he kissed her. "You're right, of course."

"While you're in that sort of mood," she said, "and Neal's gone, I want to talk to you about something for tomorrow."

Trying not to be concerned about her request – since he had told her last night that he had finally paddled Neal and she had been glad, hoping that this arrangement was going to give him the structure he needed – he took a sip of coffee. "What?" he asked with a smile, trying to appear casual.

She smiled back, reading his nerves. "I need to go to the Brooklyn Museum tomorrow morning, before they're officially open. I've got an event there next Saturday and need to do another walk through with the staff at 11:00." Shaking her head, she added, "You'd think they'd never done this before, considering all the problems we're having. But I think it would be good for Neal. We can go, you guys can walk around while I'm working …"

"An art museum?" Peter said skeptically.

"Something out of the house," she corrected him. "And then lunch afterward. Something for him to do, a reason for him to get out – it's been two weeks now that he's been here. He's got to be restless and this will be something other than what happened for him to focus on."

He thought for a moment, seeing the wisdom in what she was saying even if the idea of a restless Neal in a museum gave him a headache. "All right, we can ask him but if he says no, if he's not interested, then you have to let it go."

"Do you think he'll say no?"

Peter shrugged, still remembering the other man's refusal to be released initially. "I don't know – I wouldn't think so, but I'm not sure what's going on in his head right now. I don't think he fully knows what he wants, what exactly to do."

She nodded. "I'll ask in front of you so you can agree and tell him it's OK. If he says no, maybe you can push a bit?"

"A bit," he agreed.

Kissing him, she smiled and took a sip of her coffee as she heard the front door open and then close. "What did you get, Neal?" she called, taking a couple of steps into the doorway to watch him struggle with the bag and the dog's leash before finally gently tossing the string-tied box onto the chair so he could unhook the dog.

"Morning, Neal," Peter said, walking into the dining room. "How are the streets?"

The younger man glanced up and smiled. "Morning, it's cold out there, but nothing's icy, I think because of the wind, it's keeping everything dry." Shivering slightly as he took off the coat, he nodded toward the box sitting on the chair. "I wasn't sure what would be best so I got an assortment."

Gently pushing Satchmo's curious nose away from the blue and white box, Peter smiled. "Feels like more than an assortment." The uncertainty in the other man's voice and actions unnerved him. There was a time when he would have loved Neal to be less sure of himself, less cocky and more human, but now that it was the reality, he found he missed it. He knew the wounds were still fresh and he hoped that time really did heal all wounds, or at least made them better so that the younger man could live with them.

Neal shrugged. "I wasn't sure and everything looked good." Following the older man, he settled at the table. "It's really cold out there," he said, cradling the mug of coffee Elizabeth handed him in his hands.

"It's a good day to stay inside," Peter said, reaching into the box and pulling out a large cheese danish. He smiled. "Excellent choice." Turning to Elizabeth, he asked, "What do you want, honey?"

Reaching over, she snagged his danish. "That looks good, thanks."

Neal laughed at Peter's mock outrage.

"Are you teaching my wife some of your tricks?" he asked, shaking his head.

Holding up his hands, Neal smiled, "If I was teaching her my tricks, you wouldn't have seen her take it or even notice it was switched with an apple tart until you bit into it. But there should be another cheese in there, so you can't get too upset."

Extracting a second cheese pastry, he asked, "What do you want?"

"Oh, I'm good, thanks though," Neal said, reaching for the paper.

Peter looked at him and said in a firmer voice, "Neal."

He glanced up and tried to look puzzled. "What?"

"What do you want?" he repeated slowly, slightly enunciating each word. Peering into the box, he said, "There are some apple tarts, a couple of kinds of doughnuts, chocolate croissants, plain croissants, two sticky buns and a bear claw to round out the baker's dozen."

"What if I said I ate something already, walking back?" he said, looking at the other man.

Peter stared at him. "Then I'd say you're going to have something else now."

Neal sighed, glancing at Elizabeth for possible support, but she was studiously ignoring the conversation by focusing on the newspaper. "Peter …"

"Neal."

"But I'm really not …"

"And an apple tart it is," the older man said, cutting him off and pulling the pastry free, putting it on the plate in front of Neal.

Neal made a face. "What if I wanted a sticky bun?"

"Then you can have that after the apple tart," Peter said firmly, picking up a section of the paper and ending the conversation.

"Are you going to make me sit at the table until I finish it, too?" Neal shot back, the annoyance clear in his voice.

Not rising to the bait, knowing that any discussion with the con artist would just give him more fuel and encouragement, Peter ignored him. Not looking at his wife, he felt her foot brush his and he slightly shook his head, not wanting her to get involved. "The paper says we're going to have snow and rain on and off all day, but it'll move out by tonight," he said a minute later.

"Oh good," Elizabeth said then turned her attention to Neal. The other man had broken the tart in half but, as far as she could tell, hadn't actually eaten any of it. Breaking off a piece of her own Danish, she popped it into her mouth. "Excellent choice," she said, waiting for him to smile before she continued. "I have to go to the Brooklyn Museum tomorrow for an event next week and I wondered if you'd like to come? You can walk around while I meet with their events director. Afterward we can go to lunch some place."

Neal looked at her for a second and gave her what he hoped was an honest-looking smile.

Discreetly watching him, Peter wasn't fooled. When the younger man didn't say anything, he casually took a sip of coffee and said, "That sounds like fun, El. How long are you going to be there?"

"Oh, not too long," she said, matching her husband's tone. "Maybe an hour, hour and a half – we need to review table and station placements and I have a check list from the catering company. They've had problems in the past and want to make sure everything is fixed now."

"That sounds good," Peter agreed. "Not too long." Watching the emotions ghost across the younger man's face, he tried to figure out the best course of action, whether or not letting Neal make the call was empowering or stressful. "I think it's a good idea," he said softly, looking at him, gauging the reaction to his words.

"Yeah," Neal said simply, not looking at either one of them as he did so. Glancing up a second later, he smiled at Elizabeth, as if remembering his manners. "Thank you so much for asking."

She beamed at him. "Oh, you're welcome. I'm so glad you're going to come – it'll make it seem more like a fun outing than just a work trip cutting into my weekend." Popping another bit of Danish into her mouth, she mentally reviewed the nearby restaurants. The area wasn't the best, but there were plenty of choices in the surrounding neighborhoods and she was determined to find something to tempt him.

An hour later and six of the pastries gone, even if one still lay mostly uneaten, but thoroughly broken apart in an effort to disguise the fact, Peter tossed the paper back on the table and eyed Neal. Elizabeth had drifted away – upstairs he thought – about five minutes ago and he was done, too. "Did you eat any of that," he asked, eying the decimated tart on the plate. Picking battles with his partner needed to be done with care and in exactly the right tone, otherwise the younger man simply dug in his heels and it turned into an all out war.

Neal gave him a half smile. "Of course, can't you tell?"

"No and I think that's the point, right?"

Shrugging slightly, Neal glanced at the plate. "I ate some of it," he said firmly.

Peter stood up, motioning with his hand. "Come on, help me do the dishes. I think Elizabeth is pulling together laundry and then going to the grocery store." Scooping up the box and a mug, he walked into the kitchen, confident that Neal would follow him.

Gathering up the other plates and mugs, the younger man pushed his way into the kitchen and put everything next to the sink. He dumped the tart into the garbage can quickly before it could be used as further evidence against him and then started the dishes while Peter put away the remaining pastries.

"You like peanut butter, right," Peter asked out of the blue several minutes later.

Neal glanced up from rinsing a mug. "Yeah, why?"

"Because I'm making you a piece of toast and thought peanut butter would be better than just butter and cinnamon sugar." The words were matter of fact, leaving no room for argument. He held up a hand when he saw Neal open his mouth. "No, stop. We're not discussing this," he said, remembering the issue with dinner several days earlier. Neal, he decided, was doing much better with clear cut expectations and orders.

The younger man eyed him for a long minute before turning back to the sink and finishing the dishes. He jumped slightly at the sound of the toaster popping and tried to block out the sounds of Peter fixing the toast behind him, his stomach twisting slightly at the thought. The few dishes took just another minute and he could only delay so much. Turning back around, he saw the toast laid out on a paper towel, cut neatly into four squares, and made a face.

"Just eat a square," Peter said. "It's about two bites. No breaking it apart, no playing with it."

Neal glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly as he prepared to become defensive.

Reaching over, the other man rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gently squeeze. "Just pick it up and eat it, Neal." The toast was crunchy and hot with the peanut butter slightly melting into the bread, off set by the cold grape jelly, threatening in a tempting way to drop off the cut edges. He wasn't sure how he'd handle the situation if the other man argued with him or simply told him to forget it, but he honestly didn't think Neal would do either. Firm directions and boundaries, with clear expectations: that was how to handle Neal.

Picking up the toast, Neal eyed it and bit it in half, not looking at Peter. The square was gone in 30 seconds.

"OK, eat another square," Peter said, turning so he was leaning against the counter next to his friend.

"Is this a new rule?" he asked softly, reaching for the third square a few minutes later with a little prompting, consciously not looking at the other man.

Peter glanced at him and saw him concentrating fully on the counter top and remaining piece of toast. "I think we can consider this an addendum to Rule Number Two," he said with a smile, gently bumping against the other man. "We're changing it to three meals a day, not just dinner, until you're back up to fighting weight."

Neal gave an honest laugh at the term. "Fighting weight, huh? What's that?"

Peter hooked a finger around one of Neal's belt loops and pulled his jeans at least two inches away from his waist. "When these don't do that," he said simply. He guessed that the other man had lost at least 15 pounds and hadn't made much of a dent putting it back on in the last two weeks. Three weeks in prison was the world's best – or worst – crash diet. Compounded by grief, it could be a deadly combination.

"Hey," he protested, trying to pull away. "Some people are just born with a fast metabolism." He smiled though, picking up the last square. "You make good toast."

"Glad you approve; do you want another piece?" As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he knew it was a mistake and what Neal's answer was going to be.

Neal shook his head automatically, "Don't want to ruin my appetite."

Reaching over, Peter patted his back, letting the silence of the house settle over them. "Do we need to talk about last night?" he asked. They had briefly discussed the paddling in the early hours, but he wanted to check.

"Are you going to do it again?"

Trying not to smile, Peter nodded firmly. "That's up to you, of course but if I was a betting man …"

Neal sighed, even as he leaned into his friend. He was silent for a second before asking, "Are you going to keep adding rules?"

Peter smiled, saying, "That's up to you, of course …"

Neal laughed, ducking his head. "But if you were a betting man..." He glanced over quickly and then resumed his study of the counter top, fingers idly folding his napkin. "Thank you," he said softly.

"You're not alone in this battle, Neal," Peter said firmly. "It might feel like it, but I promise you, you're not. You have two people standing right next to you in the fight and a bunch more watching your back."

"And one of them is armed," he said with a smile.

Peter laughed. "Yes, and I think Elizabeth would gladly go after anyone who tried to hurt you with her hands alone."

"I don't want to go back to prison," he said suddenly

Surprised, Peter glanced at him. "Are you worried about that? Why? Because of Fowler?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't know."

Knowing a cop out answer when he heard one, Peter silently debated about pushing and decided not to. Filing the information away to be addressed at another time, he simply shook his head. "Don't worry about it or him, you're not going back." He laughed and deliberately pushed away the half cocked thoughts of going on the run with Neal and Elizabeth if the situation with Fowler became more threatening. Resting his hand on the other man's head, he said, "I think taking you down to the basement and beating some sense into you works much better."

Neal laughed. "Can't escape."

"No," he said firmly, pleased to see the younger man relax a bit. He heard Elizabeth coming down the stairs and gave Neal a final pat on the back. "Come on, let's help El with the laundry."

Pushing himself away from the counter, Neal nodded.

It was almost three o'clock by the time the normal weekend chores were done – the house picked up, bills paid, grocery shopping completed and the last load of laundry churning away in the basement. Elizabeth had kissed her husband, reminded him to please move the clothes from the washer to the dryer in 20 minutes and went upstairs to read and take a nap. Before she left, she had dropped a quick kiss on Neal's head as well. "I'm glad you're coming with us tomorrow."

He smiled. "I'm looking forward to it." The words were a bit of a lie, but as the day had progressed, the idea, once planted, now took root and began to grow into something Fun. The idea felt slightly foreign, but he recognized it as something good and had latched onto the normality of the concept.

Peter glanced up from the file he was reading while listening to some golf tournament on TV, recognizing the tone and the effort behind it. "Have you ever been there before?" he asked, once she had gone upstairs. He didn't remember anything in Neal's file, but there were many, many holes.

"This is the one with the fountain out front, right?" Neal asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, it moves with the movements of the people. They'll have it turned off now, of course, but it's pretty neat."

Neal thought for a minute, slowly smiling as he remembered something. "Then yeah, I've been there."

"Do I want to ask for details?"

His smile widened as he went back to his book with a laugh that answered the question.

"Yeah," the agent said, turning back to his own file. "That's what I thought." When he thought about it, which wasn't often now, one of the initial arguments he had made with the Bureau on doing the work release program with Neal was the ability to start filling in some of the main holes in the man's file. These filled in holes would, in turn, fill in other holes in other files and hopefully lead to more closed cases. That hadn't worked exactly as he had planned, but he was grateful in a way. He enjoyed the alleged stories too much to have to put on his FBI cap and actually do something about the old cases.

Yawning, Neal glanced at the TV for a minute before turning back to his book. A second later, he twisted around so that his back was against the couch arm, legs stretched out in front of him on the seat. The house was warm and the earlier snow had turned to rain and was lightly hitting the window. It was a gray, miserable day and being inside was cozy. He yawned again and then said, "Sorry," as he caught Peter glancing at him. "I'm not very entertaining today."

Peter laughed, motioning toward the files and the laptop set up on the table he had pulled over. "And these are?"

Neal shrugged and turned back to his book, sliding down slightly so that he was almost stretched out on the sofa.

Thirty minutes later, Peter glanced back over at his friend and saw him fast asleep, head tipped to the side against the back of the couch. Taking the scene in, Peter mentally added the details to his file bank on the younger man. Over the last couple of weeks, he had watched Neal fake being asleep, restlessly trying to sleep, fight against sleep out of fear and finally drop into an uneasy sleep. This was the first time he had seen the other man actually looking peaceful and relaxed while he slept. Lowering the volume on the TV slightly, he turned back to his files, determined not to wake him.

Neal jerked awake an hour later, pushing himself up with a strangled scream off the couch, eyes wide, the light blanket Elizabeth had just laid on him falling to the floor. He blinked and gasped for air in the growing twilight of the living room.

"Oh my god, Neal, I'm so sorry," Elizabeth said, shocked at the violent awakening. "You looked cold …"

He struggled to regain his composure, sinking back onto the couch and shaking his head. "No, no, I'm sorry. It's totally my fault."

"What's going on?" Peter asked, hurrying down the stairs at the sound of Neal's yell.

"Nothing," Neal said automatically.

"I accidentally woke him up," Elizabeth said at the same time, "and startled him." Sinking down next to him, she picked up his hands and held them between hers, noting how cold and shaky they were. Rubbing them gently, she smiled reassuringly. "It's OK. Deep breaths, right?"

Neal nodded, struggling to obey even as his mind and heart still raced. Taking a deep breath, he felt it catch in his throat and he shuddered.

"It's OK," she said again, softly. Glancing at Peter hovering in the walkway, she motioned for him to back away. She gave him a small smile as he headed down the hall, disappearing into the darkness of the kitchen. She felt the younger man's hands grip hers as the shaking quickened.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about, Neal," she said softly. Reaching out, she gently hugged him, hoping he'd let her and not pull away.

His breath caught in his throat as he struggled not to give in to the emotions battering at his defenses. The last time she had hugged him when he was so on edge, the night he had been released from prison, he had been too numb to feel anything and had been able to hold everything back. Now, he was too tired to resist; the defenses weakened the night before now shattered. He felt a sob escape from his throat as he buried his face in her shoulder and allowed her to hug him tighter. "I'm so sorry," he repeated. "I never meant to hurt you, for anything to happen."

Kissing him on the side of the head, she held him close and gently rocked back and forth, feeling him shake against her. There really wasn't anything to say to make his pain better, so she remained quiet while he cried.

Ten minutes later, the tears mostly stopped, he tried to pull away, embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Elizabeth," he whispered, thankful that the living room was too dark for her to see how horrible he looked or for him to see what a mess he'd probably made of her shirt. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Are you under the impression that I'm at all upset, Neal?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"Well, I'm not."

He laughed slightly at her tone. "OK."

Slipping into the living room, Peter held out a glass of water and several tissues for the younger man. "Here, drink this. And she means that since she's not upset, you're not to feel bad or say you're sorry for anything."

Neal glanced up, wiping at his face and accepting the water and tissues.

She chuckled. "See, even Peter knows that one."

The younger man smiled slightly, wiping at his nose and blinking away the last of the tears.

"Drink your water," Peter ordered, sitting down on the other side of him. Reaching for the remote, he flipped the TV on and turned to the news. "Let's see what's going on in the world."

Not letting go of Neal's hand, she leaned back against the sofa cushions and focused her eyes on the flickering screen. Her attention stayed fixed though on the man sitting next to her as he settled back with a tired sigh, his head resting on the sofa back. She saw her husband's hand go up and gently rest on Neal's head before dropping to his shoulder and then his back.

Peter caught her eye over their guest's head and he smiled, mouthing, "Love you."

In the end, they ordered Chinese delivery for dinner and ate in the living room by the light of the TV and several candles. It was bright enough to keep an eye on Neal without exposing him to the harsh glare of the lights.

Curling up against her husband in bed that night, Elizabeth kissed him and sighed. "I'm so glad he finally cried. Do you think this was the first time since Kate died?"

Peter shook his head. "No, but I think it's the first time that he's really let himself go. The other times I've seen at least have been very controlled, a few tears that he quickly put a lid on." He went silent for a moment and added, "This was more like at the hangar, right after the explosion."

She was silent; he had talked very little about the actual accident. The drama and fall out afterward kept him focused on the present and allowed little time to think about the past. Even when he came home that night, he had been focused only on the future, giving her the briefest outline of what had happened. It took another day for him to finally tell her the whole story and even then, she felt he was skimming over the bad areas. Holding him tight, she let the silence settle over the room and gave him time to fill it.

"He was so raw then, all the pretenses of Neal Caffrey - master con artist - gone in a second," he finally said. "I saw bits while he was struggling with whether or not he was going to get on the plane but then afterward….just raw horror and disbelief." He paused, reliving the feel of the heat from the fire and the younger man fighting with every ounce of strength for a few moments before giving up and collapsing. Peter had held him tight during his three attempts to break free, each one weaker but more desperate than the last, as he screamed and cried until finally going silent. "I was worried that something had permanently broken in him," Peter confessed after a long moment. "That he had put the mask back on so tightly there wasn't going to be a way to get past it."

Holding him tightly, she kissed him again, not in invitation, but purely for comfort and connection.

"He didn't even say anything, didn't cry, didn't protest, when the Marshals showed up in the office later that day," he continued, his voice faint in the dark. "Didn't even look at me or anyone, didn't protest when they handcuffed him and led him away."

"Yeah," she said quietly, having heard the horrible story from Jones and later, in more detail, from Diane.

"I did my best, El," he said, turning toward her, "but I couldn't stop them. I didn't have a badge, Hughes was protesting, trying to work out a deal with the agents to at least get him put in the FBI holding cells while it was worked out. When that didn't work, he got on the phone to his contacts, but that was going to take time. Jones tried to go with them so at least Neal wouldn't be alone, but they refused. I got Mozzie on the phone and it was all for nothing."

She heard the tears in his voice as he relived the horrible hours. "It's OK, Peter," she whispered and for the second time, held and tried to give comfort to someone she loved while he cried in her arms. "You did so good, you did everything right," she whispered.

"I tried," he said quietly.

"You did it, Peter," she repeated, pushing away all the anger and hatred she felt toward the people who did this to her husband. "There was no just trying, you did it."


	2. Chapter 2

When Peter awoke the next morning, his eyes were puffy, nose stuffy and his first thought as he listened to the quiet house and saw the sunlight streaming in was that Neal was gone. It was the first time since the younger man had come that he hadn't woken up in the middle of the night and to him, that meant only one thing – Neal had bolted. Pushing the thought away as he untangled himself from Elizabeth's arms, he slipped on his robe and headed down the quiet hall. The guest room door was half open and he peered through the crack and felt his heart lighten. Beneath the covers, he could see a mass of dark hair and hear the quiet, deep breathing of someone still fast sleep. The younger man had quietly gone upstairs a little after nine and slept through the night for the first time in over a month. Peter grinned as he went back down to his own bedroom and wondered if this feeling was similar to the one new fathers get when their infants finally sleep through the night.

Elizabeth was awake and smiled at him. "Morning."

He grinned back, shutting the door firmly behind him. "The kid is still asleep, so we have time to go back to bed."

Holding out a hand, she laughed. "Sounds good to me."

They finally got out of bed an hour later, spurred by Satchmo whining at the door when he heard Neal stirring. "I think it's going to be a good day," Peter said, kissing Elizabeth again as she started out the door.

"I think so too," she said.

Peter glanced at Neal in the rear view mirror and smiled to himself. The younger man wasn't actually grinning, but there was a small, honest smile on his face and he looked happy. It had proven to be a good morning so far and he had hope that things were getting better.

"We're going up to the fifth floor," Elizabeth said as they walked toward the museum. "If you guys get bored with that, I'll give you a call when we're done and we'll meet up." She glanced at her watch. "They'll be opening in about fifteen minutes, so it shouldn't be a problem."

Trailing slightly behind them, Neal focused on the smile on his face and on staying alert. It was such a strange feeling: part of him was numb – wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and stay there forever – and another part of him was reveling in the feel of the sun on his face and the new sights in front of him. It had been over six years since he had been to this museum, but he remembered the general layout and the approachable galleries. Not as big as the Met, of course, it was more homey and more comfortable. It was a size he could deal with right now. "So where's your event at, Elizabeth?" he asked, forcing himself to stay focused and not drift mentally.

She smiled, pausing so he could catch up. "The small Cantor Gallary – it's the start of a wing where they're going to be doing a special exhibit of miniatures." Walking again, she rolled her eyes. "The theme, therefore, of this event is miniatures, which you'd think would be easy, but it's got to be twice the work."

Peter glanced at Neal. "You're not going anywhere near the miniatures." He looked pointedly at the conman's hands. "Anything that's small enough for you to palm … just not a good mix."

Neal laughed, opened the door to the museum for them both and then held out his hands. "Do you want me to put them in my pockets?"

The other man pretended to consider the option and then nodded. "I think that's an excellent idea." Bumping against his partner as they headed toward the elevator, he was relieved to see the other man grin at the standard joke. "Without a doubt, this is going to be a hands to yourself field trip."

Elizabeth laughed. "Play nice, boys. I have a great Italian restaurant in mind for lunch if you're good."

"Hey," Neal protested. "I'm always good, I just get accused of stuff that I'm completely innocent of."

"And you have proof you didn't do it, right?" Peter said, completing Neal's standard defense.

He smiled. "Of course."

"Of course," Peter echoed.

Walking through the gallery of Italian art, Peter tried not to be bored. They had been there for almost an hour and he was ready to go. They did the Americans next to Elizabeth's gallery and then started to roam more, ending up in the European section at Neal's casual suggestion. Personally, he would have gone to see the mummies, but the idea of the younger man face to face with actual death had kept that idea in his head. The art was fine, mostly pretty pictures he could appreciate for their aesthetic value even if he missed the details that seemed to fascinate Neal. The younger man was walking slowly ahead of him, but seemed to be consciously not getting too far ahead, stopping and studying the paintings with an attention to detail that Peter simply didn't get.

"I saw the original in Amsterdam years ago," Neal said, stopping in front of a portrait of a woman.

"Original as in …" Peter asked, eying the painting.

Neal smiled. "No, just the original inspiration. Completely legit." Pointing toward the small card mounted near by, he added, "You can be inspired all you want, as long as you say it."

Peter chuckled, patting him on the back. "Something to keep in mind. Good to know that there aren't any forgeries in here."

The other man laughed loudly and then swallowed. "Oh, you were serious?"

"Where?" he asked, glancing around. "What did – " he started and then caught himself, quickly changing the question to, "What do you know?"

If Neal noticed the change, he didn't mention it and just shrugged. "What do I know for a fact or what do I suspect?"

Rubbing at his eyes, Peter slowly shook his head. "OK, let's go with in general … hypothetically speaking, anything in here you want to point out?"

He smiled slowly before turning and leading Peter to a painting they had passed earlier. Standing in front of it, he studied it for a moment.

Turning, Peter did the same. He wasn't an idiot when it came to spotting fakes and had gotten a crash course while chase Neal. But to him, this painting looked fine – nothing special, just your standard religious painting of some random saint surrounded by angels. Stepping closer, he read the card proclaiming it to be painted by someone named Fiorenzo around 1492. "This is a problem?"

"Hypothetically …" Neal said with a shrug. "First, Fiorenzo is always a bit of a red flag because no one knows much about him. He's got about 50 works that they're pretty sure are his, but even some of those are in doubt. There's another 100 or so that are thought to be either his work or by one of his pupils."

Peter nodded. "Right, so without a clear catalog, it's easier to put something into the mix."

Neal smiled. "Exactly, it always helps when you don't have to worry about a clear catalog of works. It's not good when you go through all the work of making one of those lost pieces and the original owner who has been enjoying it privately over their fireplace at the family estate for 300 years suddenly pops up to ruin everything." He shook his head with a sigh, "People should be required to tell someone when they have a lost painting like that, or at least get it insured, so people know it's really not lost."

Glancing at him, Peter caught the other man's expression and shook his head.

"I'm just saying that's one of the many frustrations that might happen if someone was to decide to do something like that."

"Of course."

Turning back to the painting and studying it, he shrugged. "Plus, when you forge something, you have to make sure that your own modern tastes and impressions don't seep through." Pointing to a small angel kneeling in the crowd around the saint, he glanced at Peter and grinned. "Greta Garbo doesn't belong in a fifteenth century painting."

Peering closely, Peter could certainly see what Neal had pointed out and smiled slowly. "So is this a guess or is this a hypothetical know?"

"Just a guess," he admitted. "But I'd put money on it." Turning, he headed back to where they were before and resumed his studies.

Watching the younger man walk away, Peter shook his head. The light and quick humor was good to see again. It was always fun to work together and he was looking forward to it. On Friday, Hughes had called him into his office with an update on Neal's status. The paperwork was still being ground through the official gears slowly, but it was moving; they just had to be patient. As much as he wanted to be once again working with the other man at his elbow, he knew it wasn't something to be rushed. Neal still needed time to heal and regain his confidence or it could all blow up in their faces.

Neal stopped, sensing that Peter wasn't following and turned toward him, waiting. "Curious to see another one?" he called out from the doorway leading into another gallery.

Peter laughed, "All right, Sherlock – impress me."

Grinning, Neal waited for him in front of another painting. "This one isn't so much the power of deduction; I might have possibly maybe …"

"Got it," Peter said, interrupting with a shake of his head. Turning, he studied the younger man, not sure if he wanted to know, but unable to ask. "Did you do it?"

Pulling back slightly, Neal looked insulted and stunned.

Mentally cursing himself, Peter started to backtrack until he saw Neal's expression was of mock outrage, not actual insult.

"Peter! I'm shocked that you think I'd do something so …" He paused, looking at the painting and then giving a small shudder. "So bad."

The other man laughed. "I'm sorry for insulting your honor, Neal."

The younger man laughed, too. "I don't care about honor, I care that you think my talent is so crappy that I'd do that kind of work."

Fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth saw them – heard them, actually, before she found them – laughing and smiled.

The Italian restaurant they went to was family style and she watched, amused, as Peter kept a careful eye on how much the younger man was eating, which wasn't as much as he probably should, but a noticeable improvement. Her husband had given up even the token protests over his care for his consultant weeks ago and she was glad. Neal had rapidly become a hybrid mix of younger brother and son to her and it was so much easier not to pretend to keep any distance. "This is almost as good as your sauce, Neal," she said, twirling a bit of spaghetti on her fork.

He grinned. "It's simple, but I love spaghetti and meatballs. You've got to love the classics." The word hit him hard and he swallowed, glancing down at his plate, suddenly feeling ill. Trying hard not to push the plate away from him in disgust, he sipped at his water.

Sensing the mood shift, Elizabeth brushed his hand gently as she reached for another roll. "So, give me your thoughts on the concept of miniature beef Wellingtons. Can they be done right or is this just a soggy, overcooked disaster waiting to happen?"

Neal took a deep breath and smiled. "I'd lean toward disaster – has the caterer ever done it before?"

The other man laughed. "Shouldn't the question be, has the caterer ever done it successfully before?"

Neal nodded and grinned. "Yeah, that's really the question. There are a lot of things that have been attempted, but never successfully.

Spying the waiter, Peter carefully picked up Neal's plate and passed it off with a smile.

The server nodded, taking it and giving the agent a new plate with a nod.

Putting it down in front of the younger man, he saw Neal glance at it, puzzled, but then quickly dismiss it, no longer interested in eating. Picking up a spoon, Peter dished out some of the cheese ravioli with brown butter and sage onto his own plate and then added a healthy serving to the new plate.

Elizabeth watched the discreet switching and marveled at her husband's handling, idly wondering if he did the same with her from time to time. Deciding she really didn't want to ponder that question too long, she laughed at Neal's description of biting into a half cooked and ice cold egg roll and the issue of what to do with the rest and what was in his mouth. "My worst nightmare," she confirmed. "You get the best and just pray." Nodding toward the plate, she said with a smile, "Try the ravioli; they're delicious."

Neal stared at the plate in front of him and swallowed. Taking a sip of water, he struggled to find the feeling of happy normalcy that had filled him most of the morning and allowed him to function.

"Cheese?" Peter asked softly.

"Yes, please," he said automatically, watching as the shreds were sprinkled on the pasta.

Turning the attention away, Peter picked up his fork and said, "I think the worst party experience I had was at a wedding for a vegan agent."

Elizabeth laughed. "Some vegan food is very good, Peter."

"This wasn't," he said firmly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Neal picked up his fork and began poking at the food. Resisting the urge to bark at the other man to just eat it, he expanded on his story, causing them both to laugh and the tension to once again fade.

Neal wasn't an idiot, he knew full well what they both were doing and some small part of him felt he should be insulted at being handled like a child and should rebel just on principle. But another part of him, a larger, louder part of him, was too tired and simply grateful for the relief of being taken care of and not having to worry, to plan and juggle everything. "I don't think really you can complain," he said, chewing a bit of pasta carefully. "I was once the guest of honor at a Chinese banquet and was served shark fin soup."

Elizabeth shuddered. "Ugh. I've seen pictures."

He grinned. "Trust me …"

Peter snorted at the words, causing the other man to laugh and roll his eyes.

Turning his attention fully back to Elizabeth, he repeated in a clear voice, as if daring comments from Peter again, "Trust me, the pictures don't do justice to seeing this glutinous mass in your bowl and wondering how to eat it."

"Or get rid of it without insulting your host, I'd think," the other man said, nudging Neal's arm and causing him to smile.

"That too," he confirmed.

"Did you say you had some cold case files here," Neal asked, trying to keep his voice casual as he washed one of the dinner plates. It had become their normal routine now, Elizabeth mostly cooking, while he and Peter cleaned up.

The other man glanced at him and nodded. "I brought a few home this week that I thought you might be interested in or could help with. They're in the filing box upstairs in Elizabeth's office." He had brought them home in the middle of the week, mentioned them to Neal at the time and been quickly and firmly rebuffed.

Neal nodded, flushing slightly as he remembered the conversation.

"Hey," Peter said, bumping his arm. "Don't worry about last week, it's done, forgotten."

"I'm sorry I was rude."

He laughed gently. "Don't be sorry, I get it and I know it's nothing personal. Look at the files when and if you want; if you see something or get any ideas, let me know. If you want, we can sit down and look at them together, or you can do it on your own." Taking the last plate from the other man, he dried it, watching the emotions ghost across his face. "Whenever you feel ready," he said quietly. "There's no pressure."

"It was good at the museum today," he said, carefully not looking at his friend and putting his full concentration on the draining water in the sink.

Peter nodded. "It was a lot of fun and you didn't take anything – a double bonus!"

Neal laughed, glancing at him. "Are you going to tell the museum's director what I told you?"

The other man thought for a minute and then shook his head. "Not immediately, I'll wait until you're back with us and then we'll see what we can find in the files. Give you a home run your first month back in the saddle and make sure you get the credit." He knew the reality and knew that, no matter that the FBI had cleared Neal in the plane explosion, the taint of being suspended and once again put in prison would linger in the office. His team was already spreading the word and putting any rumors to bed, but he knew there would still be whispers for awhile. The daring escape during the diamond fiasco had overshadowed any taint from the younger man being taken out of the office in handcuffs and had simply added to the mythical Neal Caffrey reputation . This time, there was no daring escape, just a perceived quiet slipping back into the office through closed door meetings.

"That would be good," Neal said softly and sighed. "I think I'll need it."

"Don't worry about it now. Let's just focus on the present and on doing good work."

"Yeah."

Opening the door Tuesday evening, Peter shivered as the warm air hit him. "Hey," he called, shutting the door firmly behind him. Glancing into the living room, he saw Elizabeth and Neal sitting across from each other at the dining room table, papers spread out between them. "Did you kids have a nice day?"

His wife glanced up and rolled her eyes as he came closer, tilting her face up for a kiss. "Hi, honey."

"Hey, Peter," the other man said. "I've had a very good day."

Elizabeth laughed, winking at her husband. "Neal has had an exceptional day." Standing up, she motioned for him to sit down. "Have a seat, I'll get you something to drink and let him fill you in on all the details."

Neal grinned at her before turning his attention back to his handler and taking a deep breath. "So you know how you said I could go through some of the cold case files you brought home?"

"That's why I brought them home," he confirmed, then smiled. "Did you find something?"

Neal's grin widened and he pushed a legal pad toward him. Unable to sit still any longer, he jumped up and stood behind Peter's chair reading over the other man's shoulder. "See it?" he asked with a small laugh.

Skimming the data quickly, Peter's smile widened and he glanced up at his partner. "I do and this is excellent. How sure are you?" He took a sip of the beer Elizabeth had brought him and continued to flip through the pages.

Neal laughed, leaning closer so he could look at the legal pad at the same time. "Like 99% sure. It just makes sense and I've known a couple of people who allegedly have done something similar." He shrugged, pointing at several of the highlighted numbers. "You just have to track the source codes and ignore all the other numbers and details. That's where they get you – bog you down in the details and one small thing is bound to get lost."

"And the source code is tied into the accounts, telling the accounts how to split the money up, which is why nothing ever matched," Peter said, nodding as he flipped through pages. Neal had highlighted the trail from start to finish for four source codes in different color markers, with notes explaining the process. "This is excellent," he agreed. "Good job, excellent job."

Next to him, Neal beamed.

"Told you," Elizabeth said, smiling. "An exceptional day."

Neal bounced slightly. "Glad I could be useful." Then, glancing out the living room windows, he said, "I'm going to go for a quick walk – been stuck inside looking at paper all day and I need a break."

Peter looked up from the papers and studied him for a long moment. "It's really cold out."

He shrugged. "I'll be OK – I've got your jacket." Giving the other man a quick smile, he headed toward the closet.

Getting up, Peter followed him, putting a hand on his arm. "Look at me," he said firmly.

"What, Peter?" Neal asked, struggling to keep his voice neutral.

"You did really good today," he said after a moment's pause, smiling. "It's great to see you getting back in the groove."

Neal relaxed and nodded. "Yeah. It felt good."

"Dinner's at 7:00, so back by 6:45. Right?"

The other man smiled slightly. "Yes, I'll be back. Don't worry – I won't be late."

"Neither one of us will appreciate me having to chase you down," Peter said. "Besides which, you know I'll catch you." He met the younger man's gaze, making sure he caught both meanings.

Neal laughed and shook his head, slipping on Peter's ski jacket. "My not soft safety net," he said, nodding.

"Only has to catch you," Peter confirmed. "Doesn't have to be soft."

"6:45," Neal said, heading out the door.

Watching him walk out into the darkness, Peter sighed and headed back into the dining room.

"I thought you were going to stop him," Elizabeth said.

Her husband shrugged and pulled her into a hug. Kissing her neck, he sighed. "I was going to, but he's got to be able to do what he wants, within reason. He did great today, seems like he's getting back on the right track, I didn't want to throw water on that or turn something that's not a big deal into a Big Deal." He thought for a minute. "I'll deal with it if he's not back on time, but beyond that…. he can't live here forever."

She laughed. "I know and it was great seeing him excited today. I swear, he almost shouted 'Eureka!' when he finally hit on it around eleven."

Peter laughed. "You should have called me."

"I was going to, but Neal didn't want to bother you and he wasn't sure he was right until about four. By that time, I knew you were wrapping up and that it could wait." She glanced at him and then added, "I think he also wasn't sure about calling you at the office – how you'd react, I mean."

Inhaling deeply, he thought about it. Neal's official status was as a protected witness. Hughes knew where he was, of course. But at the same time, he had simply told Jones and Diana that Neal was out of prison and safe. They might suspect he was in Brooklyn, but they had never asked and he had never volunteered the information. It was something that they would have to decide on prior to him starting back at work – what the official story was. "I'll tell him it's fine to call me," he decided. "It's going to get out sooner or later. We don't have to advertise the fact, but I don't want to lie about it either."

"Good," she said, patting his arms wrapped around her. Kissing him again, she suggested, "Why don't you go upstairs and change? We'll eat in about a half hour."

He glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost 6:30. "I told Neal 7:00."

She nodded. "That's good. He and I made vegetable soup and I thought we'd have it with hot ham and cheese, so it's easy, whenever you're hungry. I'll go feed Satch so that's taken care of."

Heading upstairs, he tried not to worry about the possibility of the clock striking 6:45 and the younger man not being home. He had meant what he said – Neal needed to be trusted to do what he said he would do and dealt with if he didn't, but at the same time, it was an impossible task not to worry in the meantime. He felt the knot in his stomach untwist when he heard the front door open at 6:40.

"So I can't totally say it was my brilliance," Neal said, smiling Friday night as they dug into the Chinese takeout Elizabeth had brought home.

"No," Peter interrupted dryly, fighting hard not to smile. "I think we can all agree that it's the rather questionable group you call acquaintances who should be getting the credit."

"But I was smart enough to remember seeing the comics pages before, and where I saw them and when, and to put it all together," the younger man said, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "So maybe I should get the credit."

Elizabeth laughed. "I think so."

He beamed at her before turning to her husband. "What do you think, Peter? Two cold cases in a week. Pretty good, huh?"

The agent shook his head, finally giving up the battle and grinning. "I think it's excellent. We'll request warrants for Marshall's townhouse and see if the book is still there on Monday."

"Oh, it will be," Neal said confidently. "He paid a lot of money for that forgery, went through a lot of trouble. He's not tucking the original away in any summer place or bank vault. He wants it somewhere where he can touch it and see it any time he wants." Digging into the egg roll bag, he pulled out the last one and put it on his plate. "When I saw it … someone … had just started to work on reproducing it. Work like that takes a good couple of months, especially when you're not on a strict deadline."

Reaching for the wax bag, Peter frowned when he saw it was empty. "Did you take the last egg roll?" he asked Neal. He sighed when he spied it on the other man's plate.

"Did you want it?"

"No, he doesn't," Elizabeth said and then turned to her husband. "Have some more edamame. They're better for you."

Pointing his fork at Neal, he frowned. "You better eat it. I don't want to see it sitting on your plate when we're done."

Neal held up his hands in surrender. "I'm eating, I'm eating. See?" Taking a big bite of the egg roll, he chewed quickly.

Unable to stop from laughing, Elizabeth nudged her husband. "If you're done tormenting Neal, would you please pass the pork?"

"I'm never done tormenting Neal," Peter said, even as he reached for the container.

Across the table, the younger man snorted. "He lives to torment me, Elizabeth."

"Call it job security," Peter shot back with a smile.

"Peter," the younger man said later, looking up from where he was storing the leftover food.

The hesitant tone in his voice made the other man look up from the dishes. "What's wrong?" It didn't surprise him that Neal waited until now to tell him if something was wrong and he just hoped that he wasn't somehow involved in the comic book forgery. Whether it was the closeness of the kitchen, the fact that he could busy himself with something other than looking at his friend, or some buried childhood association between food and trust, Neal had taken to confiding in him while they were both there together. He and Elizabeth had discussed it and she now made a point of leaving them to the nightly chore, no longer asking if they wanted help, giving them private time if Neal had something he wanted to talk about.

"Nothing's wrong," he said quickly, looking down to where he was spooning leftover Mongolian beef into a plastic container. "I just had a question."

"Shoot," Peter said, turning back around so he could pretend to focus on the plate.

"It's just been a really good week," he said slowly.

"Yeah, it has. You've done great with both of these cases."

"I was just wondering, have you or Hughes or anyone said anything about my maybe getting back to work?" Neal asked. "I mean, I'm not sure what the status is. I know I'm not a consultant right now – I'm not sure what happened to my ID since I gave it back to you … before … and then afterward … and then you got me out …." He took a deep breath, stumbling at the memory. "I was just curious."

Putting the plate casually in the drain rack, Peter turned around and leaned against the counter. He dried his hands and smiled. "I've been waiting for you to ask," he said. "I was actually going to try to bring it up this weekend."

Neal smiled at him. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Hughes and I have talked about it a couple of times this last week …"

"You have?" he interrupted, then silently cursed, forcing himself to stay quiet. It never did to appear too eager for anything. That's how people learned what was important to you and how they could hurt you. Not that Peter needed any additional information; the cynical side of his brain scolded him.

"The paperwork to get you back is almost complete," the agent continued. "Same deal as before – full time consultant under my supervision in the White Collar Division, of course. But there are a few agency hoops you're going to need to jump through."

The other man stared at him for a second before asking, "Like what?"

"Oh, standard stuff," Peter said, waving his hand dismissively. "A physical, Hughes has to agree – which he's already done, budget approval – which he already has, paper work that I need to fill out saying why and how a full time consultant will be used by the department and mandatory counseling and sign off by a therapist." He had deliberately put what he suspected as the biggest tripping point at the end, hoping to somehow slip it in without notice. A prison therapist had been brought in to see Neal as part of the suicide watch and when the younger man refused to talk to him, Moz had arranged for a private therapist, who had also been rejected.

Neal's smile froze and his eyes tightened slightly and he turned his attention back to the food. "Is that all?" he asked, aiming for casual and almost hitting the mark.

"It's totally standard, Neal," the other man said. "It's nothing personal, just standard CYA Bureau stuff. You go in, make small talk a few times with this guy, or woman if you'd feel more comfortable, they sign off and you're good to go." Pushing off from the counter, he walked over and looked at his friend. "Hey, look at me."

He glanced up for a second, flashed a smile and then put his full concentration back on the food.

"Neal."

"What?" he shot back, going straight past easy teasing to testy annoyance. "What? It's not like I have a choice in this, do I?" His eyes were tight and his shoulders slightly hunched as he gripped the spoon.

Reaching down and pulling the spoon free, Peter let it drop back into the bowl. "Look at me," he repeated in a firmer voice. When the younger man looked up, he smiled. "Come on, it's not a big deal. I had to do it – hell, I've done it a few times after different events. Actually," he said, laughing and shaking his head, "I've had to do it three times now because of you. Thank you very much."

"When?"

Deciding to skip over his most recent experience, Peter grinned. "The first time was about … 18 months or so into the chase and someone, somewhere, got concerned that I was becoming too obsessed with catching you, that it was somehow getting tied into my self-image and my inability to catch you …"

Neal grinned smugly at that.

Rolling his eyes, Peter hit him gently on the shoulder. "Don't even start. The second time was after I caught you and then they were concerned that I was going to feel lost and become unfocused on the job."

Not asking about the third time, knowing the answer, Neal picked up the spoon again and finished putting away the food. "So when do I have to do this?" he asked finally.

"You have an appointment next Tuesday," he said. "At 10:30. Maybe you can get Elizabeth to drive you and then you two can come have lunch with me. You can come upstairs and see everyone if you want then, too. I know they'd love to say hi."

Neal made a noncommittal noise and snapped the container lid on and pushed it toward Peter. "Will you put this away, please?"

"Sure," he said casually, turning his back and giving the other man some space.

"I'm not going back to prison."

Peter turned back around and shut the fridge, the younger man's hard tone surprising him. "No one is threatening that, Neal. That's not even being discussed. If you're not ready, then I'll just tell Hughes you need more time."

He shook his head. "I don't mean just for that. You said I had to have a physical and I'm telling you that I'll run before I go back there, especially for that." His voice was hard and his eyes were tight as he stared at the other man. "I won't," he repeated.

Reaching out slowly, Peter touched Neal's shoulder, resting his hand on it. "I would never do that to you, Neal. I would never even think about it. It never crossed my mind as an option." He waited until he gave a quick nod before smiling, squeezing his shoulder. "You don't have your own doctor yet?"

Neal eyed him like he was crazy. "Really?"

"You can go to my doctor, he's nearby and is on the government's insurance list, and since this is job related, it's covered."

"Does he give lollipops, too?" It was a small joke, rather lame, but an effort to rid the room of the tension that had built up in the last few minutes.

Peter smiled, squeezing his shoulder again. "I think he does. I'm sure you can ask."

"So I just have to do this and then I'm back?" he asked a moment later, glancing at Peter's face for a second before diverting his look to just off his shoulder.

"You're back."

Rubbing his hands together, flexing the fingers as if trying to work the circulation back into them, he nodded. "OK."

Peter smiled, pulling him closer and hugging him awkwardly. "Excellent. I'll tell Hughes on Monday that it's all set."

"So I just have to BS this therapist for a couple of sessions, right?" Neal asked casually as they started out of the kitchen.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, "that's what I always did." The full weight of what he had said hit him a second later. "No, wait …"

Neal glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

OooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooO


	3. Chapter 3

"Neal."

He stiffened in bed, coming awake quickly as he heard his name. Too many years of life, safety and freedom had depended on never sleeping too deeply and waking fully alert, robbing him of the ability to relax too much at night. Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to assess the room.

"Neal."

The voice was familiar, he knew it and he jerked upright, opening his eyes, and saw her standing in the corner of the room, by the chair Peter sat in at night. He stared for a long second and then whispered, "Kate."

She gave him a small smile, but didn't speak.

"They told me you were dead." His voice was low and he glanced at the door, afraid of waking Peter and Elizabeth, but the door was shut tight.

She laughed. "And you believed them? Really, Neal…." Her voice was low as she moved closer. "How many times have you told people stuff that wasn't true? How many times did you give them that great smile, reach out and touch their arm and lie straight to their face?" Stopping a few feet away, she shrugged. "It's what everyone does – tells lies, big ones, small ones – to get what they want. Peter wanted me away from you so he can save you from big bad me, so he lied and told you I was dead."

He shook his head. "Peter wouldn't do that. Elizabeth would never go along with it."

"You would do it," she countered. "You think he's so much better than you?" When he nodded, she laughed. "You always were caught up in your fairy tales, Neal. I tried to tell you, but you never listened. If you had only listened to me, if you had only done what I asked, then none of this would have happened. But no, you were too caught up in your little fairy tale and your fantasy of something better, wanting to prove how smart you were, how you could balance between both sides. Have your upstanding do-good life, but at the same time, have all the fun and games that you were used to. Not compromise on style or taste, not stop pulling whatever cons and schemes you wanted to, and do it all under the nose of the FBI. I bet you're laughing at them with Moz every night."

"That's not true," he said, swallowing. "I'm trying, I'm doing my best. I want do to this right. I want to turn things around. I enjoy working with the FBI, with Peter."

"I thought you enjoyed working with me." Her eyes suddenly glistened with tears.

"I did, I do," he said, glancing away. "This is just ... different. It's fun, learning new tricks, how the other team works, plus it's nice not to be running all the time." He smiled. "You'd love my studio, my landlady June. Come stay with me and we can figure it out together." He studied her for a moment, noticing for the first time that she was wearing the same dark jacket that she was wearing on the plane. "I saw you on the plane," he said in a soft voice. "There wasn't time – you ducked back inside and the plane ..."

Her face turned hard. "And I saw you every week for almost four years in prison. I waited for you; I put my life on hold. I hung around New York because of you. I could have gone any where – Paris, Rome, Amsterdam – anywhere! But I waited for you for four years!" Her voice was a harsh scream, rising in volume. "And you couldn't even give me two months! It hasn't even been two months, Neal and you're already moving on without me! You were happy when you thought I was gone, when you thought I was dead. You could now keep living your little fairy tale life, full of lies that even you're starting to believe. I was the only one who was around to remind you what was real and you hated me for that. Now that they've told you I'm dead and gone, you're happily moving on."

Pushing himself out of bed, he shook his head. "No, that's not true, Kate. I swear."

"Prove it," she said. A wall of flame erupted behind her, quickly spreading along the floor. "I waited four years for you, Neal. You should have been on the plane with me and you would have been if you hadn't picked Peter over me."

He stared at the growing flames in the room as they started to surround her. "Kate, please. I'm sorry."

"Four years, Neal!" she screamed. "And you can't even give me two months!"

Stepping forward, he reached out. "No, that's not true. I'm not moving on, but …"

"Then come with me."

"I can't," he said.

"You know what happens," she said, throwing back her head and screaming as the flames climbed up her coat and caught her hair.

He started gagging as the thick smoke filled the room, the stench of burning jet fuel and metal and flesh filling his nose. "Kate!" he screamed, trying to push forward through the flames. Her screams mixed with his, echoing around the room as the smoke caused him to cough and gag. "Kate!"

"Neal!"

He jerked awake, hearing himself screaming in the darkness, his nose filled with the stench of fire. "Kate!" The scream died off as he began to cough and gag, bent over in bed.

"Neal, wake up," Peter said anxiously. "Just a dream, it's OK. You're safe, it's fine."

Pushing the other man away, he stumbled out of bed, coughing and trying to escape the smell that filled his head and was gagging him. Pushing open the bathroom door, he slammed it shut behind him, throwing up into the toilet a second later. He heard soft murmuring in the hall, but blocked it out, slumping down and resting his head on the edge of the tub. Kate's screams filled his head as he was assaulted by the smells of the fire. Gagging again, he coughed and spat into the toilet, his stomach empty, the taste bitter and harsh in his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to block everything out. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he was chilly, his sweat-soaked shirt cold on his skin, when he became aware of the knocking.

"Neal," Peter's voice said, his tone making it clear that this wasn't the first time he had said his name. The knob on the bathroom door turned a fraction before pausing. "I'm coming in."

"Don't," he said, his voice rough. "I'm fine. Just go back to bed."

Peter gave a sharp laugh. "Do you honestly think there's a chance of that happening?"

Despite the situation, Neal smiled, forcing himself to sit up straighter. Reaching up, he flushed the toilet and closed the lid as the door opened. "No, but I'm always willing for there to be a first time."

Stepping inside, the agent took in the situation in a glance. He bent down and held out his hand. "Come on. Stand up for me."

Neal took his hand and allowed himself to be stiffly and awkwardly drawn up and settled on the edge of the bathtub. It wasn't comfortable, but it was better than the cold tile of the floor. Wrapping his arms around himself, he bent slightly, trying to stop the faint shaking as he took deep breaths. He sensed he was alone again in the bathroom and a quick glance showed his instincts were correct. He could see lights on down the hall and felt a flash of guilt over waking up both of them. Forcing himself to stand up, he made his way to the sink and rinsed out his mouth and gave his teeth a quick brush, avoiding his reflection.

Knocking lightly on the door frame to announce his presence, Peter waited until the other man looked up and asked, "Better?"

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "Haven't done that in awhile." He tried to smile and managed only a quick flash that fell short before giving up.

"Don't worry about it," the other man said, "we were both still up."

"What time is it?" Neal asked, disoriented. It had felt like the middle of the night, but now, he was completely confused.

"Right around midnight," he said. "El got home about thirty minutes ago and we were just downstairs chatting when we heard you."

"I went to bed early," the younger man said slowly, as the dream faded and was replaced with facts.

Peter nodded, "Yeah. You went upstairs around eight, I think."

"I'm sorry I was in a bad mood," he said with a faint smile. "I don't know why – just … off." He had known he was in a bad mood all day, but every time he was sharp and vowed he'd control his emotions better, he'd failed. He finally given up, exhausted and discouraged, with a pounding headache.

"You're entitled," he said casually. Neal had been withdrawn all day, restless when in the house, short and then apologetic, but still completely closed, when pushed to talk about what was wrong. The younger man had barely eaten dinner and then went upstairs early, to Peter's slightly guilty feeling of relief. He had mulled over drawing the line at the younger man's behavior, saying No More and paddling him, but had held off, unsure if it would be seen as a somewhat welcome reestablishment of the boundaries, or would be seen as abuse when the other man needed patience. It was something they would have to talk about and figure out together later.

Neal shook his head. "No."

Not wanting to get into such a deep and emotionally charged subject so late at night, Peter ignored him. "Come on, let's get you back to bed."

Neal laughed. "I usually make people buy me dinner first."

Peter gently bumped his shoulder. "I did buy you dinner, you just decided that you would rather stir it around your plate to try to hide the fact that you had about five bites."

"You saw that?"

"Of course," he said, shaking his head. "I see everything that has to do with you, Neal."

"You didn't say anything," he said quietly as he followed the older man down the hall.

Ushering him inside, Peter glanced at him and guessed that they were going to end up having at least some of the conversation now. "You ate some and were in such a bad mood, I wasn't sure what you needed," he said honestly. The only way this additional dimension of their relationship was going to work was if they were both honest or, at least, both tried their best to be honest.

Staring at his bed, new sheets and fresh pajamas laid out courtesy, he was sure, of Elizabeth, Neal took a deep breath, but kept his back to Peter as he said, "Say something next time, please."

"You need to say something too, Neal," he said, keeping his voice low, but firm. "I can't read your mind and while we work this out, I need you to tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

"I'll try."

"Do more than try," Peter said firmly. "If you don't tell me what's going on, I can't help and that leads to trouble, something we're both supposed to be avoiding right now. Trouble will get you brought down to the basement and paddled." He paused. "Are we clear on that?"

He nodded, but didn't say anything, pulling off his damp tee shirt and replacing it with a new one from the bed and repeating the process quickly with his sleeping pants.

Taking his cue that at least that conversation was done, Peter scooped up the clothes and carried them to the small hamper tucked into the corner by the closet.

"How are you doing, sweetie?" Elizabeth asked, standing in the doorway.

Neal turned around and smiled. "I'm good and thanks for the dry sheets. How did the event go tonight?"

She smiled and obliged in changing the topic. "It went great. I was just telling Peter about it. Do you want to come downstairs? I was going to make some tea and finish my story."

He glanced between the couple and his own bed for a second, unsure.

"Let's go," Peter said, his tone not leaving much room for argument. "The tea will help and I know that a lot of Elizabeth's work stories put me to sleep."

"Hey!" she protested with a laugh, hitting him on the back as he passed by her out the door. "I really don't think you have any room to talk, Mister. One more van story …."

"So it was a success," Elizabeth said, finishing up her story thirty minutes later. "Everyone was happy, the food was good and they're already penciled in for the next opening in about three months."

Behind the mug of tea, Neal yawned as the adrenaline faded from his system and left him feeling exhausted. "I'm really glad it turned out well and that you didn't go with the beef Wellingtons."

She laughed, standing up and picking up her mug and holding her hand out for Neal's now empty one. "Me too." Glancing at Peter, who had his eyes closed, leaning against the sofa back, she smiled. "Why don't you head back to bed; I'll put these away."

"Here, let me help," Neal said automatically, standing up.

"Don't worry, sweetie, I've got them." Nodding in her husband's direction, she added, "You could help by waking him up for me."

"Peter," he said in a low voice. "Elizabeth and I are going to head over to the Met so I can show her that special window in the basement. I thought she'd appreciate a private, after hours tour. It's so much nicer without all the hordes. You can really get nice and close to the art that way. OK?"

Slowly opening one eye and then the other, Peter glared at him and remained silent.

Neal grinned, waiting for a response.

"Is there a special window in the basement of the Met you'd like to tell me about, Neal?" the agent asked in a deadpan voice.

Feeling ridiculously pleased that Peter had heard him, Neal just shook his head and smiled. "Like is such a strong word …"

"Feel like you should tell me about?"

He pretended to think about it for a moment and then shook his head. "No, not that I can think of right now. But if anything comes to mind, I'll be sure to pass it along."

"You do that," he said, standing up and shaking his head as Elizabeth came back from the kitchen and started up the steps after both of them.

Rolling onto his side, Neal tried to push the dream out of his head. He had left the bedside light on, unable to face the dark room and leery about falling asleep too deeply. In prison, he had horrible dreams almost nightly. Some of Kate, some of himself burning alive, some of Peter or Elizabeth being the one on the plane as it exploded. All had left him screaming, shaking and exhausted. The dreams had faded over the last few weeks and he hoped that this was going to be a one time occurrence and not the start of a new pattern. When his mind touched on Kate's fate, if she had felt pain, if she had known what was happening, it flinched away, like barely touching a sore tooth – his body's aversion to pain. But at night, in his sleep, his body seemed to lose that inhibition and feel free to explore all the horrors it wanted. He felt the bile rise in the back of his throat again as he was hit by another wave of imaginary smells and he swallowed hard, reaching out and grabbing the water glass Elizabeth had pressed into his hand as they said good night. It didn't help as the smells overwhelmed him and he quickly got out of bed and as quietly as possible, hurried to the bathroom. Leaning against the wall in front of the toilet, shaking and feeling miserable, he tried to resist the urge to simply curl up on the cold tile and pray for the numbness he had found in prison.

Peter found him still there, curled up on the tiles, cold and shivering, six hours later. Silently cursing and very worried, he gently shook the younger man awake. "Neal, come on. You need to get up and get back to bed."

"Go away, Peter," he said, not opening his eyes. He was cold and exhausted, but blissfully numb and loath to lose that feeling.

"Like hell," he said, squatting down. "Up now, Caffrey or so help me …"

"What, Peter?" Neal asked, slowly opening his eyes. "I'm numb, nothing can hurt me. It's so nice."

"No, it's not," the agent barked. "And trust me, either you get up now or I'll turn you over my knee right here, right now and prove exactly how un-numb you are."

Neal laughed, closing his eyes again, muttering, "Un-numb. Un-numb … such a funny word, is it even a word?"

"I don't care," he said, moving so he could manhandle the other man into a sitting position. "Word or not, it's what your butt will be in about ten seconds."

"Un-numb," Neal repeated, rolling it around in his mouth. He shook his head as he took a deep breath. "I don't think it's a word, Peter."

"Up," he ordered.

Neal eyed him. "Are you going to paddle me if I stand up?"

"If you stand up right now, I won't," Peter promised. "But you have to stand up right now."

Lazily holding up a hand for help, the younger man slowly stood up. "Remember your promise."

"I remember," he muttered, walking the younger man back to his bedroom. Holding on to him by the arm, not trusting him to stand on his own, he jerked back the covers. "Get in, Neal."

Sitting down heavily on the bed, he rolled over on his side and curled up, shivering. 

"Don't move," he ordered, pulling the covers up and tucking them in around the other man before disappearing. He returned with another quilt and draped it over the bed for added warmth.

"I'm cold," Neal muttered, burrowing deeper under the covers.

Peter glared at him, patience at an end. "Then do as I tell you and stay in bed and you'll warm up."

"I don't want to warm up."

"Yes, you do," he countered.

"No, I don't."

"Neal."

Opening his eyes for a second, Neal studied him and wisely decided to remain quiet and closed his eyes again.

Watching him for a long moment, Peter shook his head and sat down in the chair by the bookcase, feeling a sense of déjà vu from Neal's first night out of prison. He sat down in the chair watching the younger man struggle to sleep. Closing his eyes for a moment, he wished that this past night was simply a stumble and not the start of a serious downward spiral.

Elizabeth took her plate after her husband slid her half of the omelet he'd just made onto it next to the bacon. "Toast?" she asked and then smiled as he gave her two pieces and took two for himself. "I don't think there's anything to worry about," she said, picking up the conversation they had been having while they made breakfast. "I think it's just a bad night, maybe the idea of going back to work, maybe just one of those things." Putting down her plate, she waited until he sat down next to her and nodded, touching him lightly on the arm. "Remember after your mother died? Weeks would go by and everything was fine, normal and then something would happen and …"

Peter nodded. "Yeah."

"Same thing, honey."

"He's got an appointment on Tuesday with a Bureau therapist," he said, taking a bite of omelet. "Jones saw him after a case last year and actually recommended him to me when he heard that Neal's paperwork was being approved. Said he was young and stylish, figured he and Neal could trade fashion tips if nothing else."

Elizabeth laughed. "Good, at least they'll have something to talk about." She glanced at him and added cautiously, "I don't see Neal being the type to lie on a couch and open up about his feelings."

"I don't think you lie on a couch any more, maybe an easy chair, but that's about it."

She shot him a withering look and then laughed as he blew her a kiss.

"But no, I expect a very Neal-like response and dragging of feet," he said with a shrug.

"Well, there's nothing you can do about it but encourage him and deal with whatever happens," she said.

Peter glanced at her, hesitated and then said, "I hate to ask, but do you think you can take him on Tuesday? I just have this feeling that if he takes a cab, he won't get there."

"That's not a problem at all," Elizabeth said. "He and I can work something out – I'll even go in with him if he wants." Taking her last bite of toast, she added, "I think it might help if you tell him how much you're looking forward to him being back. Sort of a pep talk maybe."

"I told him that on Friday," he commented.

"Yes and I don't think it would hurt for you to tell him again," she said evenly. "Remind him that he just has to do this a couple of times and that's it. It's like getting a shot or something – the pain is necessary, but it's quick and the end result is worth it."

Standing in front of the mirror several hours later, Neal took a deep breath and forced himself to look at his reflection for only the second time in almost two months. The numbness had worn off and the cold reality settled over him that he had to get moving again, had to be able to function and stop wallowing in self-pity. This was the first step and he knew that he would just have to keep making himself take the steps until he could once again fake them easily. The first time he had looked in the mirror, the previous week after Peter had paddled him, had been traumatic enough and he had been loath to repeat the process and ruin his good mood the past week. Now, his mood and spirits were too low to sink any further and he figured he had nothing to lose. Studying himself, he tried not to glance away. If he ignored the greasy hair that hadn't been washed yet that day, the stubble that had passed the stylish five o'clock shadow stage about twelve hours earlier and the circles under his eyes, he didn't look that different. His face was thinner and more drawn, but that was it. Taking a deep breath, he turned on the water and picked up a washcloth to begin his shaving routine, making himself focus on the mirror and his reflection as much as possible.

Elizabeth glanced up, twisting around from her seat on the chair, as the younger man made his way down the stairs an hour later. "Hey, sweetie," she said with a smile, "feeling better?"

He nodded, sinking down on the sofa. "Thanks."

Getting up, she walked over and stroked his slightly damp hair and kissed his forehead, resting her hand against his check. "You don't feel like you have a fever," she said. "Why don't I heat up some soup for you?"

Appreciating her willingness to pretend that he had been physically sick and not having his own private version of a mental breakdown, he forced a smile. "That would be great, but I can do it – you don't have to wait on me."

"Why don't you come into the kitchen and keep me company then," she said, "and we can talk about the week. Peter mentioned you have a checklist to fulfill before you get back to work."

Making a face, he followed her into the kitchen, all hope of being able to spin some sort of tale to her and get Moz to work up some fake paperwork vanishing. It had seemed like an excellent plan earlier, in the shower, and he had been rather pleased with himself for being able to think of it, plan it and work out at least some of the pitfalls. "Great," he said, aiming for enthusiasm and falling short if Elizabeth's expression was any indicator. "Peter said he has a doctor I can go to?" he asked, hoping to appease her.

She seemed mollified and nodded. "Dr. Blackstone – Peter's seen him for years and likes him. I'll give you his card tomorrow and you can make an appointment." Glancing at his ankle, she frowned. "Peter might need to take you though – his office is about two miles from here."

"Great," he repeated and then laughed. "Just what I want – Peter going to the doctor with me."

Elizabeth seemed to find the humor in that as well and grinned, shrugging. "Maybe quote HIPPA law at him and make him wait in the waiting room."

"Yeah," Neal agreed, mulling the problem over. It seemed like an easy one to get around, but his brain wasn't cooperating again. "Maybe I can find my own doctor."

Looking up from the soup she was stirring, she eyed him. "Is Mozzie a medical doctor too?"

Blushing, he just grinned.

"Do you want cheese on your ham sandwich?" she asked, stepping toward the fridge.

He was about to say he didn't want a sandwich at all when the back door opened suddenly, pushed in by Satchmo, trailed by Peter. "Swiss or cheddar is great, but whatever you have would work," he said. "I'm not picky."

Peter smiled at him, glad to see the younger man up, showered and dressed. "You know, I don't know if I'd say you were picky either," he commented, unhooking the dog. "Discriminating, maybe, particular, demanding, fussy …"

"Yes, yes," Neal said, shaking his head. "I get it. Not all of us can have your broad but very shallow taste." He grinned at the other man's nod in agreement.

"Sounds good to me," he said, "it makes shopping easier. Right, honey?"

Elizabeth smiled. "You could say that." Then, winking at Neal, she added, "When you only eat 15 meals, it certainly makes the menu easier."

Taking a beer out of the fridge, he tipped it in both of their directions. "To simple, uncomplicated, undemanding tastes." Watching his friend as he sipped his beer, he was relieved to see the spark and humor from the previous week once again in his eyes. Some of it, he knew from years of studying the other man, was fake, but what was real was big and strong enough to be built upon and that was a start. The lost and scared emptiness from this morning was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Walking out of the parking lot Tuesday morning, Elizabeth glanced at Neal and briefly touched his arm. "OK?"

He nodded and flashed her a quick smile. "Great!"

"Good, so I'm going to be in the coffee shop right next door when you're done. I'll keep my phone on, so if you need anything, just call."

Neal laughed, leaning over and kissing her quickly on the cheek. "Don't worry about me; I have my class schedule, locker number and an apple for the teacher."

Shaking her head in mock frustration, she pushed him gently in the direction of the converted brownstone halfway down the block. "Go, before the bell rings and you're late."

Giving her a mock salute, he turned and headed down the side walk, fighting the urge to glance back and see if she was watching. He was sure she was, not so much out of concern that he would bail, but just out of concern. He briefly wondered what it would have been like to have someone like Elizabeth Burke as his mother to send him off on the first day of school. Pushing that thought out of his mind, he mentally reviewed the plan he and Moz had come up with the night before.

With the amazing forethought that proved why his friend was an excellent friend and partner to have around, Moz had already researched the FBI's policy on certifying someone mentally fit to resume active duty, therapists most likely to be assigned to Neal's case and the different levels of care. It had become easier once Moz had gotten the name – through means Neal really didn't want to explore - and they had pulled together a profile of the therapist, his school of thought and key phrases to use and to avoid to hopefully get the lowest level of care.

"Don't get your hopes up though, man," Moz counseled over the phone the night before. "This guy is young, but you can see he's got a lot of experience with agents and is enthusiastic. Someone older, counting down the days to retirement, might have been an easier draw."

"We play the hand we're dealt," Neal said, flipping though the pages Moz had emailed him and that he had printed off in the privacy of Elizabeth's attic office that afternoon.

"You do have two things working in your favor – since you're not an actual agent, this counseling is more of a CYA for the Bureau than them actually being concerned about the mental health of an armed agent. If you go crazy, you're more likely to hurt yourself than some innocent civilian."

Neal laughed. "Yeah – I knew there was a reason I didn't like guns. What's the other thing in my favor?"

"Your guy has booked a cruise that's scheduled to leave in three weeks; he's going to want you signed off and the paperwork delivered before he leaves, unless you look like you're going to take a swan dive off the building."

The other man laughed. "Seriously? How did you find that out?"

Moz snorted. "I never reveal my sources."

"Well, I'm glad you've got them," he said, feeling better prepared for the appointment the next day now that he was armed with some of his familiar tools.

"You know," the other man started and then paused before continuing in a more serious and gentle tone. "This really isn't a bad idea, Neal. He might actually be able to help."

"I'm fine," the other man said automatically. "I appreciate your concern though."

Moz went quiet for a moment, mulling over his next words. His rather long childhood experience with mental health professionals – those overworked, underpaid souls who had been assigned to help foster children – had taught him that most were stumbling blindly in the dark with no real clue how best to help, even if their patient or client were forthcoming about problems. Now, as an adult, he had a certain amount of respect for these people and an even deeper sense of mistrust. "I'm not sure I'd say you were fine, man," he finally said. "But I respect your freedom of choice not to have your head and mental processes examined. You're going to have to pick at least two emotions and problems though to discuss; you may want to consider having at least some line of truth to them. You know, a lie – "

"Yes," Neal said, cutting him off. "A lie is much better and more convincing when it's as close to the truth as possible. I know."

"I'm just saying," Moz countered.

"Look, I've got to go, but I appreciate the information and I'll keep you posted."

"Always happy to help – take care of yourself."

Neal smiled into the phone. "Always do."

Clicking off the phone, Moz mentally replayed the conversation, mulling over what, if anything, to report. Pocketing that phone and pulling out another, he quickly dialed. "Our mutual friend is hard at work, Suit," he said as Peter picked up the line. "You may want to push ever so slightly since my feeling is that his performance at the shrink you all are insisting on will be Oscar worthy."

Peter cursed, glad he was already in the car and not still in the office. "I thought we agreed talking to someone would be helpful, Moz, and we were both going to encourage that."

"And how much control do you think I have over him?" the other man shot back. "He is – as always – a free spirit. Our deal was simply that I keep you informed if he's going off the rails. I don't think he is at this point, but I thought you should be aware the shrink will be less than helpful and might actually do some harm if he rips open healing wounds."

"The wounds aren't healing so much as scabbing over," Peter said. "It was a rough weekend."

Moz sighed and mulled over his next move, debating how much to say and how much to keep private. He had known the younger man for more than ten years and knew what lay beneath many of the hidden and scabbed over scars. "There is often a fine line between healing and scabbing over, Suit, especially with people like Neal. I doubt he knows the difference and he certainly operates fine. We might consider being happy with whatever results we can get."

"I just want him back," Peter said simply.

"And that's what we're working toward," Moz said, clicking off the phone. Staring at the disposable phone in his hand, he once again considered if it was time to toss it and sever the deal he and the FBI agent had made in the frantic hours and days after Kate's death. It was something he seemed to consider almost every time he made a call to or answered a call from Peter to discuss their mutual friend. But, every time he considered it, he remembered how frantic Peter had sounded when he had called to inform him of what had happened and that Neal was being taken into custody by the Marshals, and how grateful he had been to receive the call. He had been shocked when he had finally been allowed to see the younger man 24 hours later and knew that if Peter hadn't called, it would have been days or even weeks before Neal had thought to do so. He had called the agent back, trying to hide how shaken he had been by the visit, and the two had worked out their own private support group deal. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he knew it was still too soon to end their deal.

Under the pretense of just casually looking around as he climbed the converted brownstone steps, Neal glanced back in the direction of the coffee shop and wasn't surprised to see Elizabeth had staked out a spot at one of the small metal tables outside. From the distance, he couldn't tell for sure if she was watching, but he was willing to bet she was. Raising a hand, he gave a quick wave and then continued into the small protected vestibule. Pressing the button marked M. Underwood, he waited until he heard a faint buzz and the lock being released. A moment later, he stepped into a small waiting area and smiled warmly at the middle aged woman sitting behind the reception desk. "Hi, my name is Neal Caffrey," he said, widening his smile at her.

"I'm not sure what I'm feeling," Neal said softly ten minutes into the appointment, after the initial getting to know you and what we hope to accomplish small talk, glancing at the ugly coffee table that sat between him and the therapist, trying not to judge the other man's taste. He was aiming for slightly lost, slightly uncertain, hesitant without overplaying it, with no hint of anger or self-hatred. A bit of guilt, sadness and readiness for things to be back to normal were allowed. "I guess mostly just a bit adrift."

"That's an interesting choice of words," the therapist said. "My impression from your file was that you've been adrift most of your adult life? No permanent job, no family ties, no permanent address. I would have thought that someone like you would be used to being alone, that it was your natural state."

It was at that point that Neal lost all respect for the man and the smallest thread of any sort of honest discussion snapped. He might not have had an address to send Christmas cards to every year – excluding the four spent in prison – but he certainly had friends, connections and acquaintances. He had so many contacts on six of the seven continents that sometimes it felt as if he were in his own personal version of "Six Degrees of Separation," considering how many times in the past he had run into friends of friends. A person didn't need a 401 K, a W2 and a year's subscription to "Time" to be tied to the world and not alone. Clearly, the highly educated man in front of him had bought into his world's definition hook, line and sinker. It made sense, given that he was used to working with government employees who all had bought into the system playbook. Mentally summoning the energy to bury one more emotion and resist the urge not to bait the other man, Neal nodded slowly, as if mulling over the therapist's words. "I guess it would seem that way, but being with the FBI on their work release program has really opened my eyes. It's made this … whatever I'm building – these connections, I guess – seem not so much being tied down, which is what I think I once thought, but whole new and good way of living. It's something I've never really had before or even had a chance to build before." He resisted the urge to smile at his comeback, feeling confident that the speech was what the man was looking for - a nice, repentant con shown the error of his previous aimless lifestyle through the guidance of the FBI.

"Tell me more about these new connections you're building," the other man said with an encouraging smile.

Walking down the steps fifty minutes later, appointment card for Friday tucked into his pocket, Neal tried not to wince at the bright sunlight. He could feel a headache coming on and he consciously tried to roll his shoulders free from the tension. The 45 minute session had been harder than he thought, but he was proud of the results. The therapist seemed to buy into everything and scheduled him for Friday, explaining that the closeness of the appointments wasn't anything to be concerned about, but that he had a vacation coming up in a few weeks. Neal had been understanding and eager to accommodate him and had asked the right general questions to appear the socially acceptable level of interested in someone else's vacation plans.

Elizabeth smiled and waved as he approached and pushed a cup of coffee and her remaining half muffin across the table toward the empty seat for him. She held up a finger as she finished up the work call.

Breaking off a bit of muffin, he ate it, enjoying the spicy richness and smiled at her in thanks. Sipping at the coffee, Neal closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. It was unseasonably warm and the sun and lack of wind made it feel comfortable sitting outdoors. He was wearing Peter's jacket again; he had been strangely hesitant to push for getting his own. The slightly too big coat made him feel more protected and that wasn't something he was willing to think too much about. Instead, he just accepted it and waited for Peter to make a joke about getting his property back. He could then joke that it went with the casual clothes he was wearing all the time and that no coat of his would look right with the jeans and sweater.

"Sorry about that, sweetie," Elizabeth said, closing the phone. "One of my clients thinks she's not only hired me to plan her daughter's wedding, but also serve as go-between with her and her ex-husband." Drinking the last of her coffee, smiled and asked, "Want me to ask how it went, or you want to talk about something else?"

He smiled at the straightforward and honest question. "It went fine," he said, wishing he could tell her the truth, but knowing he could never – would never – put her in the position of feeling guilty for telling Peter, which he knew she would. "The guy seems nice enough; I can see why Peter thought we might click." That part was true, at least.

She reached out and gently squeezed his hand for a moment. "Good, I'm glad. Just try it and get signed off. It if helps, I'm sure you can certainly keep going for however long you want."

He laughed. "Honestly, Elizabeth? I've gone as long as I wanted to already."

Shaking her head, she laughed too. "Well, I think the FBI wants a bit more than that … unless he's already signed you out?"

"No," he admitted, pulling out the small appointment card. "He wants to see me on Friday" he said, quickly adding, "But I can get a cab, don't worry about having to take me again."

She gave him a level gaze and then asked, "Neal, do you think I minded taking you this morning?"

Neal knew what he was supposed to say. He knew he was supposed to smile and shake his head and say no, of course not. But the words stuck in his throat and he just felt exhausted from lying all morning and the thought of continuing to do it with her made his head pound. Opening his mouth, he closed it again a second later and swallowed. "Sorry," he finally said, pushing the muffin away. Closing his eyes again for a second, he took another breath before opening them and smiling.

Not pushing, she smiled back at him. "So Peter said to give him a call and he'd try to meet us for lunch, or he said we can go there so you can see everyone again." Watching his face flinch ever so slightly, something she felt sure she would have missed two months ago, she added, "Whatever you want to do."

Neal shrugged. "I don't care."

"OK then, I think he can come meet us. You guys eat enough at the restaurants around the office that it'll be good to go someplace else."

He nodded. "Any place in mind?"

Flipping her phone back open, she nodded. "There's a great Cuban place not too far away some friends swear by that I haven't had a chance to try. How's that sound? Nice pressed Cuban sandwich?"

Neal nodded and watched as her smile softened as Peter picked up the phone and he wondered if his face had changed that way when he and Kate had spoken. He didn't remember, but it had been so long since they had actually talked in person and not through bullet proof glass, just about normal day to day life. Thinking back, he wasn't sure if they had ever really talked about normal life or if they had ever had one. Instead, the days seemed to have been filled with excitement and drama, stress and plans – none of which left much time to discuss the laundry or who was picking up what for dinner or reminders about dentist appointments. He swallowed and drained the last of his coffee and tried not to think about it.

Peter wiped his mouth happily thirty minutes later. "Excellent choice, El. This is delicious."

She beamed. "The shrimp is very good, too. I'm glad you like your sandwich." Turning to Neal, she asked, "How's yours?"

He nodded, taking a bite. "It's very good, nice and crispy."

Thinking about their conversations over the last few days, Peter nodded. "It would be good if you finished at least half of it then." He met the other man's gaze and gave him a half smile. "Fighting weight, remember?"

Neal nodded and took another bite, his headache fading as the tension from earlier left him.

Elizabeth watched the interplay between the two men for a moment before turning her attention back to her husband. "So honey, how's your day going?"

Watching Neal out of the corner of his eye, Peter told them both about the boring budget meeting he had gotten called into first thing. "And I'm a numbers guy," he said a few minutes later, "and even I was half falling asleep. I swear, no one should be required to attend something so boring before 10 am."

Neal laughed, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "Did you tell Hughes that? I'm sure he'd be more than willing to take that suggestion."

The other man rolled his eyes. "That's quite all right. I'll wait until you're back and then you can make all the scheduling suggestions you feel are appropriate." Giving him a nod at the mostly eaten sandwich, he smiled. "Speaking of which …"

"This morning went fine, Peter," Neal said evenly.

"I wasn't asking about that," he said. "If you want to talk about anything, I'm trusting you to tell me." His eyes met the other man's for a long moment. "Neal?"

He nodded. "Yes, I'd tell you if I wanted to talk about anything. But I don't – everything is fine."

Peter held up his hands. "Great. What I was going to say is that I think we might be getting a good case in a few weeks, so it'll be great to have you back on board."

Neal smiled. "Oh really? What?"

"Bank robberies."

Elizabeth laughed at Neal's expression. "Oh my god, it's like you've just said the magic words, Peter."

Neal grinned. "Hey, it's exciting! I've never even been accused of robbing a bank."

"Safe deposit boxes don't count?" Peter countered, remembering a possible link to a job Neal had been suspected of pulling off and he had once investigated.

The younger man grinned, obviously knowing exactly what the agent was thinking about. "I've allegedly been thought to do a few things with boxes, but those are much different than banks. Banks are just brute force, big chance of someone getting hurt or getting yourself into a situation where there's no way out." He shook his head. "Too much risk for too little gain, plus too many police academy washouts living the dream as security guards." He shook his head, thinking about it. "Just not my style."

"So how many boxes have you had fun with?" Peter asked, aiming for casual.

Neal grinned at him and rolled his eyes before taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Well, we'll know in about two weeks if we're going to get kicked this case or not," Peter said, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "It'll be nice to have your input."

"I'm willing to start back tomorrow," he said.

"Did the guy you saw today sign off?"

Neal glared. "No."

"Did you get your physical taken care of?" Peter asked.

"The appointment is for next Thursday morning," he admitted. "I tried for sooner, but that was it. I could find someone else," he added, the whisper of a plan forming in his mind.

Peter eyed him for a moment as if sensing the eagerness, instantly suspicious. "No, that's fine. We have plenty of time."

Parting ways again at the parking lot, Neal tried to focus as he walked toward the therapist's office. His head was pounding already and he felt tired, like he did in the past when he had pulled several cons in too close succession. Summoning the mental energy to smile, charm and lie while mentally adjusting for the audience's reaction could be tiring even when he was 100%. Now, shivering slightly in Peter's coat, he felt that he was maybe 60%, which at least was an improvement. There was no doubt in his mind that if he had been asked to pull this … job, as he liked to think of it, off two weeks earlier, he would have been locked up for his own protection. Forcing himself to smile, he slipped into the right mind set and pushed the buzzer.

"So how was your week, Neal," Dr. Underwood asked.

Knowing he should resist, but unable to, Neal smiled. "It's been good, Mike." He saw the therapist flash a small bit of annoyance at the use of his first name. "I've got plans this weekend with some friends to go to a new exhibit that's opening at the Brooklyn Museum about miniatures."

The therapist frowned slightly. "Are you concerned about tempting yourself by visiting a museum?"

Inwardly Neal smiled. He and Moz had worked out this conversation last night and he felt he had the perfect answer. Shaking his head slightly, he said, "I trust the friends I'm going with to help me if I feel that I'm being tempted. It's important to me that I push myself a bit and learn to control the sometimes destructive impulses, since it's not like I can live in a world without temptations."

"How honest do you think you can be with your friends?"

Again Neal smiled. "Very honest. They're my support system, I know they care deeply for me and I care about them. I'd never do anything to hurt either one of them and I trust them not to hurt me." He swallowed, hearing himself being honest and hating to reveal so much. "I can tell them anything," he said. "I know they'll help." Wanting to deflect the therapist's attention, he threw out a question of his own. "Are you going with friends on your vacation?"

Underwood nodded. "I am – there are four of us going. Two weeks in Italy; I can't wait."

Neal had already known where the man was going and what their itinerary was based on hotel reservations and was prepared. "That's great," he said and then turned wistful. "My girlfriend – Kate – the one who was killed – and I loved Italy." And, with that he was off, speaking of memories and his feelings and fears and throwing in the occasional travel tip and restaurant recommendation when he felt it was appropriate. It was a beautifully crafted lie.

As the 45 minute hour was wrapping up, the other man glanced at his notes. "I'm really impressed, Neal. You seem to have a good handle on the challenges ahead and I'm glad to see that you have already created a support system. Unless you have any objections, I'd like to see you continue to explore these issues in more depth than we can in just an hour. How do you feel about keeping a journal? You can write in it, send me the pages either by scanned email attachment or fax, and then we can discuss it over the phone next Wednesday?"

"I love to write," Neal said with a smile.

Stepping into the coffee shop – the two tables outside already taken – Neal spied Elizabeth sitting at a table in the back.

She waved and motioned toward a second cup sitting all ready in front of the empty chair.

"Thanks," he said, feeling the tension from the previous hour slowly dissolving. "So, good news."

"What?"

"The guy wants me to keep a journal about my thoughts and then send it to him and we're going to talk on the phone next Wednesday," Neal said, trying hard not to sound too happy that his plan had worked so quickly. During Moz's research, the other man had found two different articles written by Underwood touting the benefits of journals instead of traditional sessions with clients who were capable of making good progress on their own and they both had zeroed in on that action plan.

Elizabeth took a long sip of her drink, studying him. "Do you think that will work, Neal? I know it might seem attractive, but do you think that will be helpful?"

He nodded. "I think so." And then, unable to continue the lies, he leaned in closer. "Honestly, Elizabeth, he's not helping now. I just need time to work things out on my own. I've done it before, I know what I'm doing and it's what I'm used to doing."

"I know that, sweetie," she said carefully. "But you don't have to go through it by yourself anymore."

"I've got you guys," he said and then quickly regretted it. "I mean I've got Moz and you and Peter, so it's not like I'm alone. I've always had friends around." Feeling as if he was just making a bigger mess, with every word, he shut up and played with his coffee cup. "I mean …" he said after a second, trying again.

"Yes," she said, "you have us and I'm thrilled about that. But it's been a rough few months …"

Neal nodded. "Yeah, but thanks to you and Peter, it's getting better." He took a sip of his own coffee, going for all out honesty or at least as much as possible. "I feel like I'm just playing this guy, he doesn't understand me and I don't have the energy or desire to try to make him." Watching her, he added, "Plus, Peter said this is just a Bureau paperwork thing and making it sound good is all that was expected."

Mentally cursing her husband and knowing that while he might not have said exactly that, the attitude sounded familiar, she frowned. "This isn't a game, Neal."

"I know, I know," he said hurriedly, backtracking. "But I think I can work things out on my own. I give you my word," he said honestly. "I'll keep a journal and I'll write down what I'm feeling until this guy clears me. I promise."

"What sort of journal do you need?" she asked after studying him for a moment. "We can pick something up on the way home."

He smiled at her. "Just whatever – a spiral notebook is fine, or one of those black and white composition books you use in school."

Studying him, wishing that Peter were there, both so she could chew him out for giving Neal the impression that the therapy was a quasi-game, and so he could get a better read and clue her in to what Neal was really feeling. She had gotten much better after living with him for over a month, but she knew she could only really read him when he was off his A-game. Giving him another nod, she motioned toward her phone. "OK, then – next issue. Lunch? With Peter? You want to go to the office?"

He really didn't want to go into the office, he really didn't want to see the looks of pity or distrust or hostility on anyone's faces. But the day was coming and facing everyone now, casually, with a quick escape, was much better than walking into the office cold some Monday and being there for nine hours. It wasn't that much different from doing a test run before pulling off a major job – you walk the scene, survey it, look for problems and address them. Of course, on a job you always had the option of canceling the whole deal. He didn't have that option here. "I'm good with seeing everyone," he said carefully. "If Peter thinks I'm dressed OK." He was wearing what had rapidly become his new uniform – jeans and a sweater with a button down underneath. Today's sweater was reddish-orange, not so close to orange that it was immediately dismissed by throwing into the fireplace, but close enough that he was sure Moz – who had brought it over in the original suitcase of clothes – saw it as a joke. It was warm and comfortable and reminded him that he was playing a new role.

"You look fine, but if you'd feel more comfortable, maybe Peter can just ask Jones and Diana to come down with him when he leaves. You can say hello and then we can leave."

Neal nodded, liking that plan much better – easier and more accessible escape routes and controlled exposure to people who would be on their best behavior because their boss was around.

"OK then," she said, picking up her phone and dialing her husband. "Sounds like a plan."

Pulling up to the FBI offices twenty minutes later, Elizabeth put her hazard lights on as she halted the car.

Peter waved to one of the security guards patrolling the plaza, indicating the car was with him, as Jones and Diana followed him.

Taking a deep breath, Neal smiled and slid out of the front seat. "Hey guys," he called.

"Hey, man," Jones said, reaching out and shaking his hand and then patting him hard on the back in a half hug. "It's great to see you! And out of the suits; I never thought I'd see the day! I didn't even know you owned a pair of jeans."

Neal laughed. "Of course, got to blend in and in Brooklyn ... you know ..." They had discussed the living situation over dinner Monday night, and Tuesday evening Peter told him that he had made a casual reference to Neal camping out in his guest room while discussing previous weekend plans with Jones. The general feeling was that it hadn't been a secret anyway and was pretty much assumed by anyone who cared about Neal.

"It's hardly Staten Island, Neal," Peter countered with mock gruffness.

Rolling his eyes, Neal grinned at Diana. "Good to see you again, too."

She smiled back, shaking his hand with both of hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. "You too, Neal. It's good to see you again and I'm thrilled that Peter says you'll be back in a couple of weeks." She had been at the airport ten minutes after the explosion and was looking forward to making new memories of the charming con she had enjoyed working with briefly.

"Yeah," Jones said, interrupting. "You wouldn't believe how boring and quiet it is. We've got a new batch of fresh agents who are dying to meet you." The word was out of his mouth before he thought about it and he stumbled for a second. "What I mean is …"

"What he means is," the other agent said smoothly, not wanting the meeting to get awkward, "that Jones has been filling them in on some of your greatest crimes and they can't wait to meet the mastermind himself."

"Alleged crimes," Neal said with a smile.

"No, no alleged about it," Peter said, cuffing him on the shoulder. "You did actually send coffee to me and our teams several times, pizza at least twice and there was something about an escort in Vegas, but I was never able to get the full story about that one."

Neal grinned. "And you'll never get it from me."

"Or me," Jones added, remembering the scantily dressed woman knocking on their van door one evening, asking for them all by name. One of the other agents had been going through a bitter divorce and he swore later that she was just a great listener. He and Neal exchanged matching grins.

Rolling his eyes, Peter shook his head. "OK, I'd actually like to eat lunch with my wife, so if you guys are done …"

Holding out his hand, Neal laughed and Jones pulled him into a quick hug.

"Great seeing you again, man," the agent said.

"You too," he said and then held out his hand to Diana, too. "And you. I'm looking forward to working together again."

"Bye Neal," she said with a smile.

"Back seat," Peter barked as he saw Neal heading toward the front.

"But I called shotgun earlier!" he protested, smiling.

"No - there is no shotgun in my wife's car," he said, shaking his head, causing two other agents passing by to glance at him and the car worriedly.

Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Neal smiled at the other two agents. "In the office or out, he's still bossy."

"Get in the car," Peter ordered as he slide into the front seat, "or we'll leave you."

Waving one last time, Neal slid into the back seat with a smile. As soon as the car pulled away from the federal plaza, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He wasn't exactly tired as much as drained. He felt out of practice of being On all the time. It was certainly better than Tuesday, though.

"That was good," Elizabeth said a few minutes later, after a brief discussion with Peter about lunch places settling on some place near her office so parking wouldn't be a problem and she could pick up some needed files while Peter caught a cab back afterward. She glanced at Peter and nodded.

"Everyone is looking forward to you coming back," the other man added. "Jones really has been keeping the new agents entertained with stories of your antics."

Keeping his eyes closed, Neal chuckled. "My antics? Please tell me that you're not reducing my alleged brilliance to antics." Shaking his head, he sat up straighter and smiled, repeating in a disbelieving voice, "Antics."

"Do you prefer shenanigans?" Peter asked, glancing behind him.

Neal laughed. "I prefer brilliance."

"Antics or shenanigans," Peter countered, "one or the other."

"Elizabeth …" Neal started.

"Oh no," she said, interrupting with a laugh. "I am not getting into this one. You two can work it out."

Staring at the white, blue-lined sheet of paper in front of him, Neal tried to find the right mind set for his journal for Dr. Underwood: stable; grieving, but not despondent over the sudden murder of his girlfriend two months earlier; certainly not casual about the tragedy, which would suggest that he wasn't in touch with his feelings. Folding his hands together and resting his head on them, he mentally reviewed the play and then, picking up the pen, began to construct his journal. It took three attempts before he finally felt himself slip into the right mindset and the words began to flow. He took care to switch pens and writing angles every now and then between entries, giving the illusion of time passing in the form of days, not minutes. Like other jobs, once he got into the groove and became the journal writer, as he liked to think of the person writing – not himself – the words flowed out onto the page and time seemed to stop.

"Whatcha doing, Neal?"

He jumped, startled to hear Peter's voice from the door of the guest room. He had been using a lap desk, sitting in the old wing back by the bookcase, away from noise and Elizabeth's slightly reproachful eyes. When they had stopped at a local drug store and he had picked up one blue spiral bound notebook, she had very simply touched his arm and looked him in the eye.

"Remember your promise to me earlier? Get another one, too."

He had nodded and swallowed slightly. "What's your favorite color?"

She studied the small selection. "Get the yellow one. It's cheerful and it's hard to lie to something so cheerful."

Not necessarily believing that, but nodding anyway, he had picked up the yellow. Now upstairs, he had started writing in the blue one, while the yellow one mocked him from the plastic bag on the bed.

Staring at Peter standing in the doorway, he smiled and motioned toward the notebook open on his lap. "Writing."

"I can see that," he said, moving into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed across from him. The action suddenly reminded him of the night he had gotten Neal out of prison several weeks earlier. A lot had happened since then, their relationship had made several fundamental shifts, and now he could tell the younger man was trying hard to rebuild the walls that had surrounded him. Peter understood that, but was determined to make sure that the walls included him and Elizabeth and didn't cut them out. "Hughes got a great preliminary report today from the therapist," he said finally.

Neal grinned. "Good. We seem to get along great, really hit it off – nice guy, easy to talk to. He was a great choice, by the way."

"Don't bullshit me, Neal," Peter shot back, suddenly annoyed at the other man's attitude.

The other man half shrugged. "What do you want me to say, Peter?"

"The truth would be nice."

"You want me to say the guy's an idiot, doesn't understand a thing about me, where I'm coming from or who I am, and isn't interested in learning? He just wants me to fit into his little mold of what Good is and what's the right way to deal. But that's not me; I don't fit in molds." The true anger and frustration in his voice took him by surprise and he quickly tried to cover it. "Or maybe …"

Peter held up a hand. "No, I'm betting that's pretty much the truth, isn't it?"

Neal didn't say anything, but glanced away with a shrug.

The other man stared at him and then said in a firm voice, "You have a new rule, Neal."

His head jerked around and he glared at his friend. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No," Peter said firmly. "This isn't your choice; you're not in charge here."

"What?" he asked a long moment later.

Tapping the notebook in the other man's lap, he said, "You can play games with anyone else, but you do not do that to me or Elizabeth. I don't care what games you're playing with this therapist, what lies you're telling him. I think it's stupid, but I can't stop you, so I'm not even going to try. But I won't have you lying or playing stupid games with me, not while we have any sort of relationship."

"I don't lie to you," Neal said firmly, pointedly leaving off the games aspect.

"Good, then it shouldn't be a problem," the agent said, noting the admission.

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but closed it quickly at the other man's glare.

"No, I don't want to hear it. We're going with broad concepts here. I'm talking about when I tell you to be honest with me and you're not; I'm talking about you lying when I ask you whats wrong. I'm not talking about the almost knee jerk reaction you have to instinctually say Fine! when asked how you are or any of those little white lies, if you will. Those I know, I can work around them."

The other man glared at him, "So how am I suppose to know the difference?"

Peter looked at him for a long moment, "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Neal. If not, you're a quicker learner and I'm sure after a few examples, you'll catch on." He waited, giving the other man a chance to respond and when he didn't, he reached over and tapped his knee, lowering his voice slightly. "I know you; I know how your mind works. I'm saying to you no more games and I'm not playing them with you. If I start trying to make this rule iron tight, it will just give you a challenge to work toward. The rule is that you don't lie or play games about what you're feeling, what's going on with you – period. If I decide you're doing either one of those, even if you protest, you're going to get paddled." He was deliberately keeping his voice firm and level, with no trace of anger or threat – just a firm statement of fact. "Clear?"

The other man glanced down at the notebook, his gaze briefly flitting toward the yellow one on the bed.

"Neal."

"What?"

Peter shook his head. "That tone isn't going to win you any points."

He made a face, but nodded. "Clear," he said finally. "I got it: no big, personal lies, no games, no looking for loopholes, because you don't care."

"I wouldn't say that," the other man said with a small smile, nudging Neal's foot with his own.

Neal glanced up and felt himself smile back. "OK, so you care, but not about whatever mythical loopholes I think I manage to find."

"There you go," he said, standing up. Briefly resting his hand on the younger man's head, he dropped it to his shoulder and squeezed. "Come down when you're ready and you can help us make dinner."

Nodding, Neal watched him walk out of the bedroom. Closing the blue notebook with a disgusted sigh, he tossed it on the bed and glared at the yellow one. Its cheerfulness seemed to mock him. He stood up and pulled it closer and then picked up a fresh pen, one that he hadn't used in the other journal. Positioning it on the small lap desk, he stared at the lined page for a long moment and then started to write in a quick code he had developed years before. As far as he knew, the FBI had never broken it, and if he was going to try his best to be honest, he needed the privacy.

Elizabeth knocked on his door frame an hour later. "Hey," she said softly as he glanced up in surprise. "Dinner's going to be ready in about ten minutes. Coming down?"

Blinking, pulling himself back to reality and away from the yellow journal, he stared at her. "Yeah," he said slowly.

She smiled and nodded. "Good." Heading back down the stairs, she slowly shook her head, understanding why the young man had caught her husband's attention. He was a fascinating mix of young and old, honesty and deception, cold hardness and warm softness, all bundled into one very complex and ever changing package. She would do anything to have changed what happened on the plane, to allow that horrible woman to tell Neal once and for all that it was over, to admit she had been the one to betray him, turning on him by cutting a deal to save herself, and then ride off into the sunset of some tropic island, where, if there were any justice, Elizabeth felt, she would be eaten by a shark. But she was also ever so grateful that the fates or gods had decided to entrust the care and healing of one Neal Caffrey to her and Peter, giving her the time to get to know and understand him better.

"Is he still up there?" Peter asked, glancing up as she walked into the kitchen. "I was having visions of him slipping out to go roaming again."

"Oh ye of little faith," she said with a smile. "He's writing, from what I can tell, in the yellow notebook I made him pick out." She sighed as her husband pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. "He seems to be doing better," she whispered. "I just want him to be honest."

Peter chuckled, kissing her hair. "That's a lot to ask of Neal Caffrey, honey. But I talked to him about it and told him I expect nothing else. Honesty and no games."

"Do you think he can do it?"

"I think so," he said after a moment. "I don't think many people have asked that from him and he hates to disappoint."

She smiled, pulling back so she could see his face. "He hates to disappoint you," she corrected.

"Yes, he hates to disappoint me," he said with a nod. "So we have that in our favor and I told him that he'd be very sorry if he wasn't honest."

"Can you really punish him if you don't know for a fact that he's lying?" she asked softly. Her sense of fairness and right conflicted with the idea that her husband had, in a sense, the final say over the younger man.

"Oh, I'll know," Peter said confidently. "I know how to read him." Kissing her again, he pulled back and glanced toward the living room as the faint sounds of someone coming down the stairs reached him. "It'll be OK," he said with a smile. "Now, what sort of salad dressing do you want?"


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm going to miss these, Neal," Peter said, reaching into the cellophane bag and extracting a chocolate chip cookie. They were sitting around the dining room table later that night, the scrabble board laid out between them.

"Stop eating the cookies," Elizabeth said from her seat in the living room. "You had two before dinner already."

"And now I'm having two after dinner," Peter countered.

Neal laughed, loving to listen to them banter. "I'll make sure you get the recipe," he said, laying down his tiles to spell "nimbus," coming off of the other man's "widen."

Peter made a face and marked down the points. "So what do you want to do this weekend?" he asked, popping the last of the cookie into his mouth.

The other man glanced up. "I thought you said we could go to the museum again."

"I said we could go if you were good," Peter corrected.

Neal narrowed his eyes. "And I haven't been good this week?" Starting to count off on his fingers, he said, "Limited walks, I've eaten basically every meal, I've put up with Underwood – what more do you want?"

"You've been very good this week," Elizabeth confirmed.

Reaching out, Peter gently bumped against him. "There's still tonight and all day tomorrow to get through." He winked, putting down "dials" and jotting down the points.

"So I'm being challenged to be good," Neal said, looking at the other man. "What if I can't do it?"

He nodded. "I have complete faith in you."

"It's good someone does," Neal said softly, laying his own tiles down.

Peter glanced at him. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," he lied.

Finishing the game twenty minutes later, Peter glanced over at his wife. Catching her eye, they exchanged looks with him glancing between her, the sleeping dog and the door.

One of the good things about being married so long, she knew, was the ability to read those unspoken exchanges. Standing up, she stretched, causing Satchmo to lift his head. Bending down, she scratched his ear for a second before tapping at her leg. "Come on, Satch, let's go for a walk." Turning to the two men in the dining room, she added, "I need some air – I'll be back in a few minutes."

Peter nodded, "Be careful."

Neal stood up. "Do you want some company?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No, don't worry about it. I won't be long. Help Peter put the game away and maybe prevent him from eating all the cookies. I'd like one when I get back."

Standing up, Peter watched her leave and then turned his attention to Neal, who was putting away the game. "Come on, leave that for now. We need to talk." When the younger man looked up, he said, "I want to know why you said, 'It's good someone does,' when I said that I had complete faith in you."

"Why did you ask me what I said, if you heard me?" Neal asked, clearly annoyed at being caught and feeling cornered.

Peter eyed him, "I'm going to assume that's a rhetorical question, Neal." Forcing his voice to remain calm, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me what you said when I asked?"

"Can I assume that's a rhetorical question, too?" he shot back. Meeting Peter's gaze for a moment, he shrugged and added, "No reason."

"No reason?" Peter asked. "That's the answer you want to go with?"

"Peter," Neal said, his voice dripping sarcasm, "'Nothing' is a socially acceptable reply when you mutter something you didn't expect or want someone to hear, they hear it anyway and then ask you what you said."

Peter eyed him. "So, in your mind now, when I ask you what you said when you say something and you don't feel like sharing it with me, you feel that it's OK to fall back on the polite, socially acceptable answer instead of the truth? Is that how you see it working, Neal?"

"Look, I don't want to talk about this, all right?" Neal glared at Peter.

"Neal." Keeping his voice low and firm, he waited several long beats as the silence filled the room.

"Look, I just said it, OK? I wasn't saying it for you to hear!" the younger man said finally, frustration clear in his voice.

"Even though I was sitting all of two feet away from you and you said it in response to something I said," Peter countered firmly. When the younger man opened his mouth again to continue the argument, he held up his hand. "I think you wanted me to hear you, Neal. I think you wanted me to reassure you that my faith in you isn't misplaced. Something I am more than willing to do."

"Why do you think I care what you place your faith in, Peter?" Neal could hear the edge in his own voice, but he felt powerless to stop himself. He didn't want to have this discussion with Peter. His head was starting to pound and all he wanted was to be able to retreat behind a nice, socially acceptable lie of "nothing" and not have to account to Peter for his feelings. "Leave me alone, please."

"No," Peter said, moving closer and closing the space between them. "You're not alone, Neal. You don't play games like this with me. I told you not three hours ago that there was to be no lying, none of this BS that you think you can pull with other people. This is exactly what I'm talking about, Neal." He paused, letting his words sink in. "So now, we're going to head down to the basement, you're going to take off your jeans, we'll discuss my expectations and definition of the truth from you and then I'm going to paddle you."

Folding his arms, Neal glared. "I don't know that I'd consider a socially acceptable answer the same as lying or playing games."

"Well, luckily for us," Peter said, "I am quite sure that I do consider it the same, so there's no sense worrying about it." Motioning toward the basement door at the back of the hall, he said, "Let's go." Opening the door, he headed down the stairs, not waiting for Neal, trusting that he would follow. A long moment later, he heard footsteps behind him and the door shut a second later.

"I don't know that this is fair," Neal said, as he glared at the couch.

Putting his hand on the other man's shoulder, Peter said in a soft, firm voice. "Yes, you do." When the other man didn't answer, he patted him on the shoulder. "Let's do this, Neal. Off with the jeans and come on, we'll get this settled."

"I think I should have gotten a warning or something," the younger man said, squirming and gritting his teeth as he felt Peter push down his boxers to fully expose his butt a minute later.

"The something," Peter said, resting the smooth wood of the paddle on the bare skin for a moment, "was me telling you that I wasn't going to put up with you lying or playing games." Raising the paddle, he brought it down with a sharp crack. "You don't have to be honest with the therapist, but you do have to be honest with me." Delivering two more hard swats, he continued, "Is that clear, Neal?"

Neal sucked in air and remained stubbornly silent.

Peter could feel the tension and the stubbornness almost rolling off the other man and mentally shook his head. Raising his arm again, he brought it down with a quick snap, repeating the motion five more times.

"Fine!" Neal barked out, squirming. "I get it, OK? No lying, no holding back, no socially polite answers, I get it."

Continuing the paddling in a steady rhythm, Peter evenly covered the other man's butt in deliberate strokes. "Good," he said four swats later, not letting up. "I've told you twice now, you have to be honest with me and every time you're not, Neal, you're coming right back here and we'll repeat this process. Is that clear?" The paddle fell in time with the words, but Peter kept most of his focus on the other man, listening for signs of serious distress. He wasn't expecting tears; Neal hadn't cried the first time he had been paddled and he didn't think they were at that point yet.

"Yes," he gasped out, struggling and twisting slightly as if trying to escape, but putting no real effort into it. "Yes, I promise. I'll do my best."

"That's all I'm asking," Peter said, putting down the paddle and resting his hand on the other man's hot skin, patting it gently. "That's all anyone can ask of you, including yourself." Sitting there quietly for another minute, he asked, "Ready to get up?"

Neal nodded and slowly sat up, pulling up his boxers, and then sighed as Peter settled him back down next to him on the couch. "You don't have to do this," he said, shifting and wincing, trying to get comfortable. "I don't know that I want to. I'd rather get up."

"There's no 'have to' in this relationship, Neal," Peter said, spreading a blanket over the younger man. "Just sit here and be still for a bit." Resting his hand on the other man's head, he held him close and felt him shake as he struggled not to cry. "I have complete faith in your ability to be good, Neal."

Recognizing the words, Neal nodded, but stayed silent.

"What do you think would have happened if you had admitted that you didn't share that faith?"

Neal shrugged. Finally, several long minutes of silence later, he said, "I don't know if I can admit that."

"But you have already," the other man said. "Months ago, back in the office after that kidnapping case with Wilkes and Rice. You said you were tired and didn't trust yourself to keep making the right decisions."

The younger man chuckled. "Yeah and look what that admission got me – beaten regularly by you."

"Is that what this feels like?"

"No," he said honestly and then paused. "I don't know what it feels like, but it's good. It was the right thing to say. It's what I need." He paused again. "I told that guy Underwood that I had a great support system."

Peter waited patiently, letting Neal fill in the silence.

"I do, you know," he said a minute later. "I might try to bullshit you …"

The other man chuckled.

"OK, fine," Neal said, laughing slightly too and relaxing into Peter's arms with a sigh. "I do try to bullshit you, but you've always known and I need that. I respect that."

Slowly following Neal back upstairs twenty minutes later, Peter once again mentally congratulated himself on having a wonderfully insightful wife. As the younger man continued up to his room to take a shower, Peter suspected, to compose himself or actually cry, he glanced out the window and saw her sitting on the front steps with the dog, drinking a cup of something hot. He knocked on the window and saw her glance up with a smile.

A few minutes later, she walked in. "Hey, honey."

Looking up from where he had just turned on the TV, he smiled and held out his hand. "Hey."

She leaned down and kissed him. "Everything go OK?"

"Very well," he confirmed, kissing her back. "Thanks."

"Hands," Peter muttered as Neal strolled by, eying the display of miniatures arranged on a low table.

"Honey, would you please relax," Elizabeth said, linking her arm through his. "He's not going to take anything." Then, raising her voice slightly, she called out, "Are you Neal?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, even as he stuck his hands back in his coat pockets. Then, glancing at Peter, he smiled. "This stuff is too small anyway, no challenge."

"Neal," she sighed, but shook her head as Peter laughed. It had been a great weekend so far and she was happy just strolling around the quiet museum with them. It was certainly more fun to have someone she could actually discuss the art with instead of feeling as if she was torturing her husband.

"Elizabeth!"

The voice behind her made her turn and she instinctively smiled as a past client waved from the corner. She waved back and turned back to Peter. "This is going to take more than a few minutes. I'll give you a call when I manage to break free." Leaning up, she kissed him, adding, "And be nice to him."

"I'm always nice," he protested. "Can I remind you that the blinking jewelry on his ankle is proof of how nice I am?" Watching her chat with the older woman for a second, he turned and wandered over to Neal.

Sensing his presence, the younger man said without turning around, "I just don't get the idea of miniatures. Have you been to the Art Institute in Chicago? They have that whole section full of tiny rooms – just beyond me."

Peter laughed. "Finally, Neal Caffrey admits that there is some art that even he can't appreciate."

He smiled and shrugged. "I think calling this art is stretching. You want to go look at something else?"

"Gladly, but no more suspected or known fakes, OK?"

"Why not? It's like a game, Where's the Fake?"

Peter laughed. "Yes, but I'd like to turn it into a case when you get back and we'll have plenty of time then. Until then, I'd just like to relax a bit."

"How about the Egyptian art then? I really don't know many people who specialize in that. I might be able to spot something being off, but no story to go along with it or anything."

The other man studied him for a second and then decided to be honest. "I'm not sure that death relics are what you need right now, Neal."

Neal pulled back slightly as he inhaled, holding his breath for a moment. "It's fine," he said slowly and then shrugged. "It's fine. Death is a part of life. I can't avoid it forever – it's on the news, it's in movies, TV shows. Hell, even the job once in awhile." His voice was casual and easy and he gave the other man a small smile.

Watching the younger man, he wasn't sure if the casual air was supposed to convince him or himself. "OK," he said finally, "but on one condition."

"Always conditions with you," Neal muttered, heading toward the stairs.

Reaching out, Peter grabbed him by the arm, turning him to face him. "I'm serious Neal."

"OK, what?"

Tempted to call the whole thing off and insist on African art, Peter shook his head. "No roaming. I want you next to me – not off wandering around on your own."

He looked like he was going to argue for a moment, but then slowly nodded. "OK," he said, "I'll stand right next to you." Flashing a quick smile, he added, "So I can protect you from the mummies."

"Whatever keeps you next to me," Peter muttered.

"Hey, did you know that there are some people who go to great lengths to avoid walking past mummies? They've never bothered me. I've never put much store into the idea of curses."

"And yet you believed in the healing power of an old book?"

Neal shrugged, not bothering to try to explain the twisted logic.

"That was interesting," Neal said, sinking down onto one of the benches in the lobby.

Peter eyed him. "It was," he agreed. It had also been one of the best acting jobs he had seen from the younger man in some time. Neal had been quiet, slowly walking among the art, dutifully reading the cards and responding if Peter said something. He had stood for a long moment in front of a painted funeral piece of a dark hair woman, giving it much more attention than the artwork actually called for.

"Do you ever wonder about the people who wore this jewelry?" he asked in front of a case of rings.

He shrugged. "Not really."

Neal smiled and shook his head. "No imagination, Peter. It might have been their favorite ring."

"It might have been something the funeral director threw in with the sale of the coffin," Peter countered, bumping him gently. "You know, sort of an added bonus like a toaster."

Laughing, the other man shook his head. "Yeah, go to Atman's Coffin Shop – Satisfaction Guaranteed – 500 Year Warranty - free lapis ring with every purchase!" Not looking at his friend, he continued his study of the metal jewelry. "Did Kate have a coffin?"

The question was so out of the blue that Peter was actually stunned for a moment. He glanced at Neal and saw the other man determinedly not looking at him. "Her remains are still being kept at the FBI labs," he said cautiously. "Since the explosion is still an open investigation, they won't release anything for another few weeks."

"Will she need a coffin?"

"No," Peter said simply. He was unsure if it was better to go into at least some of the details or let the younger man lead the conversation.

"Funerals are a good way to say good bye to someone," Neal said, "but you don't actually have to have one."

"We can have a service at her father's grave later, if you like."

Neal shrugged, moving on and letting the conversation drop. "Have you ever been to Egypt?" he asked a moment later, studying a large map on the wall detailing the locations of various tombs. His tone was light and casual as he flashed Peter a quick smile.

The other man took a breath and allowed the subject to be changed. "No, I haven't. Have you?"

Neal shook his head. "No, but maybe one of these days. It's really not on my Must See list, even though it should be."

Listening to him talk, filling the silence with words, Peter hated himself for being impressed with the acting job. He knew he should call the younger man on it, make him talk about what was going on in his head, force him to ask all the questions that were haunting him, but he couldn't make himself do it. He was scared that if he pushed Neal that much, the younger man might shatter. He might be patching himself together with spit and gum, but it was allowing him to function and that was important. The chinks in his armor would appear over time and then they could be slowly, carefully worked on. Until then, he just needed to be able to function.

"You boys done?" Elizabeth asked, walking across the lobby toward them.

"We're done," Neal said, standing up with a smile. He glanced between them, asking, "Lunch?"

"Don't tell me you're actually hungry," Peter asked with a laugh as he held the door for his wife.

Neal grinned at him. "I don't know but I am curious what we're going to eat."

"Ignore him," Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes in Peter's direction. "What do you feel like?"

Stepping into the sun that filled the plaza, Neal glanced at Peter. "A burger, I think."

The other man laughed, "Good choice. There's a great place – total hole in the wall, but they have the best burgers and onion rings."

Elizabeth groaned, "Not Jake's?"

He laughed. "Honey, it's great." Turning to Neal, he said, "Ignore her, best food."

"Can't wait," he said, smiling and then laughing, seeing the mock glare Elizabeth shot him.

Neal glanced up from the notebook he was writing in as Peter knocked on the bedroom door again. "Hey," he said.

"Everything OK?"

He nodded. "Good, just tired and I wanted to work on this for a few minutes." He glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost 11. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late."

Coming into the room, Peter sat on the bed across from his friend. "Do we need to talk about anything?"

The younger man smiled. "I don't know, do we?"

"Neal," he said with a sigh.

He laughed. "No, promise, Peter. I'm good. It was a good day." Motioning toward the blue notebook that lay closed on the bed, he said, "I'm going to send that off to Underwood Tuesday morning and talk to him on Wednesday. Keep your fingers crossed that he signs off then."

"Do you think he will?"

Shrugging, he said, "I don't know." Then, his voice going more serious, he continued, "It's not like it's going to help, Peter. I just have to deal with this and get through it. Talking isn't going to help."

Peter eyed him. "Talking to him isn't going to help, you mean."

Neal smiled. "Yes, that's what I meant. Talking to him isn't going to help. He doesn't know me, he doesn't care and doesn't want to really care."

"I don't know that you really went into this with an open mind," the other man said evenly. And then smiled as Neal shrugged. "OK – just keep our agreement in mind."

Shifting slightly in his seat, Neal nodded. "I will."

"Good." Standing up, he smiled, "Sleep well."

"You too."

Walking into his bedroom, Peter shrugged at Elizabeth. "He's fine – writing in that journal."

"Which color?" she asked, putting down the book she was reading.

"The yellow one."

She smiled. "Good. That's mine and he's promised that he'll be honest in it." Watching as Peter changed, she said, "What do you think is going through his mind right now?"

"I honestly have no idea," Peter confessed, slipping into bed. "I think he's just working toward a goal – getting signed off and getting back to work. My guess is that everything else is secondary." He glanced at her. "He asked me today if Kate had – or needed – a coffin."

Elizabeth nodded. "What did you say?"

"What could I say?" he countered. "I just told him no. I wasn't getting into the details unless he pushed. We can get a nice urn later if he wants."

Curling up next to him, she sighed. "I think it's a good sign that he's asking, that he's thinking about her death at least."

"Yeah, that's true. It's one of the stages, I guess."

"It's going to be quiet once he leaves," she said softly.

Peter laughed. "Quiet can be a good thing." Then, kissing her, he added, "But I know what you mean."

"You'll make sure he knows he can stay, right?"

"He wants to go back home, to his apartment, El," Peter said softly. "He's an adult, he has his own life."

She squirmed away and looked at him, annoyed. "I know that, Peter. I'm just asking that you please make sure he knows he's welcome to stay or come back or stop in at any time. We can't just cut him off as soon as he gets his credentials back. How is that healthy or good for him?"

"No, no," he said, "you're right. I just need to think about how to handle it." Pulling her close again, he kissed her. "I wasn't thinking about just kicking him out into the cold, El. I promise."

"I know," she said softly, mollified.

Flipping off the light a few minutes later, Peter listened to the quiet sounds of the house settling and mentally reviewed his options.

"Let's take Satchmo out," Peter said on Tuesday evening. They'd had a simple dinner, cleaned up already and Elizabeth was gone to a networking event. "It's not too cold out - fresh air will be good."

Neal laughed. "Fresh air? Really?"

"OK," he conceded, "You know what I mean." They needed to talk and he had learned that Neal did much better if there was something else going on – some other distraction, like the dishes. Tonight, a walk was going to have to serve the same purpose.

"This is a nice break from the cold," the younger man said, stepping out into the cool evening. "Do you think we'll get more snow?"

"Probably," he said. Starting down the sidewalk, holding onto the dog's leash, they headed toward the park. The streets were quiet, most people home already from work and enjoying dinner. A few minutes later, he said, "We need to figure out how things are going to work once you're living back at June's."

Neal glanced at him. "So that was approved?"

He nodded. "I got the paperwork today – she signed off yesterday."

"Good, I'm glad. I talked to her yesterday, but she didn't say anything."

Peter shrugged. "She might have thought you knew, or wanted to make sure the Marshals signed off before she got your hopes up."

He made a face, but stayed quiet.

"Even though she's signed off, you can still stay with us," Peter said firmly. "It's not a problem and seems to be working well."

Neal nodded. "Thanks. I really do appreciate it – everything, Peter. I don't know what I would have done without you and Elizabeth." His voice caught for a second and he coughed in the darkness. "I don't know." The thought of these long weeks in prison made him feel cold and sick inside. Imagining how he would have survived and in what mental shape made him shudder.

"Hey," the older man said, reaching out and rubbing his shoulder, sensing the other man's thoughts. "It's our pleasure. I never would have left you hanging. You're my partner, which means I've got your back." Walking along in silence for another minute, he said, "I want to make sure you know that I don't plan on backing down on our arrangement – our agreement – if you're not living under my roof."

The younger man laughed, ducking his head slightly as he felt Peter pull him closer. "Considering when you're on a case, you seem to spend more time at work than at home, I think I might be under closer supervision then."

"Exactly," Peter said with a smile. "We'll see how it goes, but don't expect any special breaks or any less supervision."

"Never would have dreamed of it," he countered. Then, laughing, he shook his head. "OK, maybe dreamed of it …"

"But not expected it," Peter finished.

"No." Then, glancing at him in the darkness, added a minute later, "Or really wanted it." He sighed. "I remember how I felt in your office, that night, after the Wilkes case."

Not saying anything for a long moment, waiting to see if Neal would fill it in, Peter finally said, "Yeah. I remember that night. It seems like such a long time ago."

He nodded. "I think I still feel that way, when it's quiet and I stop and think about the months ahead and everything. I still feel the same." His voice was quiet and distant. "Kate's gone, but I'm still me."

"That's not a bad thing, Neal." Peter stopped, turning to face him on the sidewalk. "You being you has gotten you through the last eight weeks. You've survived a lot and you're coming out on the other side. A lot of men wouldn't be able to say that. Hell, I've seen other agents who couldn't deal with what you dealt with as well."

"I've dealt with worse," he said, his voice hollow. "You just learn to deal and move on."

Peter nodded. "And you're not in this alone, remember. I wasn't leaving you alone that night; I'm not going to start now." Patting his back, he added, "You really don't have a choice in this." He knew the words could come out threatening, but he trusted the younger man to pick up on their underlying meaning.

Neal laughed. "Yeah. Not my choice – I don't have to worry about it."

"That's right."

"Ready?"

Taking a deep breath, Neal adjusted his cuffs slightly and nodded. Opening the car door, he stepped into the FBI parking garage.

"Now remember," Peter said, handing him a temporary badge. "This is just a briefing to get you up to speed on this new case with the bank robberies. Hughes has an idea, but I'm not sure …"

"No, no," the younger man said, bouncing slightly. "I think it's a great idea. I can do it." He laughed, glancing at Peter. "I've got some ideas on how to do it already. Last time … hypothetically speaking, of course..."

"Of course," he said, rolling his eyes and hitting the button for the 21st floor. Turning to Neal, he smiled. "Just be calm, you're not officially back for another two days. Plus, it's Monday morning, no one should be that happy on a Monday."

Neal grinned. "I am."

"I can tell," he said dryly. And then turning slightly, he winked at the younger man.

Taking a deep breath, Neal closed his eyes briefly as he felt the car slow as they reached the floor. He let it out, forcing himself to relax as he felt Peter's hand rest briefly on his back. He nodded and plastered the smile he had been practicing for the last two weeks on, the mask slipping almost smoothly back into place.

The End


End file.
